THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY 


"The  old  medical  outrage     ,         .     had  a  nigger  along.' 


ROADS  OF 
DESTINY 


BY 
O.  HENRY 

Author  of  "The  Voice  of  the  City,"  "The  Trimmed 
Lamp,"  "Strictly  Business,"  "Whirligigs," 
and  Sevens,"  Etc. 


PUBLISHED   BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOE 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1909,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

Copyright,  1903,  by  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine  Company 
Copyright,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by  the  Ridgway  Company 
Copyright,  1902,  1903,  by  Ainslee's  Magazine  Company 

Copyright,  1904,  by  the  Metropolitan  Magazine  Company 
Copyright,  1908,  by  the  Phillips  Publishing  Company 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


/  I.  ROADS  OF  DESTINY 3 

II.  THE  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  ACCOLADE    ....     29 

III  THE  DISCOUNTERS  OF  MONEY     .....      40 

IV.  THE  ENCHANTED  PROFILE 48 

V.  "  NEXT  TO  READING  MATTER  " 57 

VI.  ART  AND  THE  BRONCO     .      .      .      .      .      .      .74 

VII.  PHOEBE      •,.      .      . 88 

VIII.  A  DOUBLE-DYED  DECEIVER 107 

IX.  THE  PASSING  OF  BLACK  EAGLE 120 

X.  A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 134 

XI.  CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME 144 

XII.  FRIENDS  IN  SAN  ROSARIO       .      ,      .      .      .      .155 

VIII.  THE  FOURTH  IN  SALVADOR     .      »      .      .      .      .    171 

XIV.  THE  EMANCIPATION  OF  BILLY 184 

^   XV.  THE  ENCHANTED  Kiss 197 

XVI.  A  DEPARTMENTAL  CASE    . 213 

XVII.  THE  RENAISSANCE  AT  CHARLEROI     ....   227 

XVIII.  ON  BEHALF  OF  THE  MANAGEMENT    ....   243 

XIX.  WHISTLING  DICK'S  CHRISTMAS  STOCKING   .      .   258 

XX.  THE  HALBERDIER  OF  THE  LITTLE  RHEINSCHLOSS  278 

XXI.  Two  RENEGADES 289 

XXII.  THE  LONESOME  ROAD      .,  .  302 


2.4-61 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY 


ROADS  OF  DESTINY 

I  go  to  seek  on  many  roads 

What  is  to  be. 

True  heart  and  strong,  with  love  to  light  — 
Will  they  not  bear  me  in  the  fight 
To  order,  shun  or  wield  or  mould 

My  Destiny? 

Unpublished  Poems  of  David  Mignot. 

THE  song  was  over.  The  words  were  David's;  the  air,  one 
of  the  countryside.  The  company  about  the  inn  table  ap 
plauded  heartily,  for  the  young  poet  paid  for  the  wine.  Only 
the  notary,  M.  Papineau,  shook  his  head  a  little  at  the  lines, 
for  he  was  a  man  of  books,  and  he  had  not  drunk  with  the  rest. 

David  went  out  into  the  village  street,  where  the  night  air 
drove  the  wine  vapour  from  his  head.  And  then  he  remem 
bered  that  he  and  Yvonne  had  quarrelled  that  day,  and  that 
he  had  resolved  to  leave  his  home  that  night  to  seek  fame  and 
honour  in  the  great  world  outside. 

"When  my  poems  arc  on  every  man's  tongue,"  he  told  him 
self,  in  a  fine  exhilaration,  "she  will,  perhaps,  think  of  the 
hard  words  she  spoke  this  day." 

Except  the  roysterers  in  the  tavern,  the  village  folk  were 
abed.  David  crept  softly  into  his  room  in  the  shed  of  his 
father's  cottage  and  made  a  bundle  of  his  small  store  of  cloth 
ing.  With  this  upon  a  staff,  he  set  his  face  outward  upon  the 
road  that  ran  from  Vernoy. 

He  passed  his  father's  herd  of  sheep  huddled  in  their 
nightly  pen  —  the  sheep  he  herded  daily,  leaving  them  to 


4?  Roads  of  Destiny 

scatter  while  he  wrote  verses  on  scraps  of  paper.  He  saw  a 
light  yet  shining  in  Yvonne's  window,  and  a  weakness  shook 
his  purpose  of  a  sudden.  Perhaps  that  light  meant  that  she 
rued,  sleepless,  her  anger,  and  that  morning  might  —  But, 
no!  His  decision  was  made.  Vernoy  was  no  place  for  him. 
Not  one  soul  there  could  share  his  thoughts.  Out  along  that 
road  lay  his  fate  and  his  future. 

Three  leagues  across  the  dim,  moonlit  champaign  ran  the 
road,  straight  as  a  ploughman's  furrow.  It  was  believed  in 
the  village  that  the  road  ran  to  Paris,  at  least;  and  this  name 
the  poet  whispered  often  to  himself  as  he  walked.  Never 
so  far  from  Vernoy  had  David  travelled  before. 

THE    LEFT    BRANCH 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ran,  and  turned  into  a  puz 
zle.  It  joined  with  another  and  a  larger  road  at  right  angles. 
David  stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  took  the  road 
to  the  left. 

Upon  this  more  important  highway  were,  imprinted  in  the 
dust,  wheel  tracks  left  by  the  recent  passage  of  some  vehicle. 
Some  half  an  hour  later  these  traces  were  verified  by  the  sight 
of  a  ponderous  carriage  mired  in  a  little  brook  at  the  bottom 
of  a  steep  hill.  The  driver  and  postilions  were  shouting  and 
tugging  at  the  horses'  bridles.  On  the  road  at  one  side  stood 
a  huge,  black-clothed  man  and  a  slender  lady  wrapped  in  a 
long,  light  cloak. 

David  saw  the  lack  of  skill  in  the  efforts  of  the  servants. 
He  quietly  assumed  control  of  the  work.  He  directed  the 
outriders  to  cease  their  clamour  at  the  horses  and  to  exercise 
their  strength  upon  the  wheels.  The  driver  alone  urged  the 
animals  with  his  familiar  voice;  David  himself  heaved  a 
powerful  shoulder  at  the  rear  of  the  carriage,  and  with  one 
harmonious  tug  the  great  vehicle  rolled  up  on  solid  ground. 
The  outriders  climbed  to  their  places. 


Roads  of  Destiny  5 

David  stood  for  a  moment  upon  one  foot.  The  huge  gen 
tleman  waved  a  hand.  "You  will  enter  the  carriage,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  large,  like  himself,  but  smoothed  by  art  and 
habit.  Obedience  belonged  in  the  path  of  such  a  voice. 
Brief  as  was  the  young  poet's  hesitation,  it  was  cut  shorter 
still  by  a  renewal  of  the  command.  David's  foot  went  to  the 
step.  In  the  darkness  he  perceived  dimly  the  form  of  the 
lady  upon  the  rear  seat.  He  was  about  to  seat  himself  op 
posite,  when  the  voice  again  swayed  him  to  its  will.  "You 
will  sit  at  the  lady's  side." 

The  gentleman  swung  his  great  weight  to  the  forward  seat. 
The  carriage  proceeded  up  the  hill.  The  lady  was  shrunk, 
silent,  into  her  corner.  David  could  not  estimate  whether  she 
was  old  or  young,  but  a  delicate,  mild  perfume  from  her  clothes 
stirred  his  poet's  fancy  to  the  belief  that  there  was  loveliness 
beneath  the  mystery.  Here  was  an  adventure  such  as  he  had 
often  imagined.  But  as  yet  he  held  no  key  to  it,  for  no  word 
was  spoken  while  he  sat  with  his  impenetrable  companions. 

In  an  hour's  time  David  perceived  through  the  window  that 
the  vehicle  traversed  the  street  of  some  town.  Then  it  stopped 
in  front  of  a  closed  and  darkened  house,  and  a  postilion 
alighted  to  hammer  impatiently  upon  the  door.  A  latticed 
window  above  flew  wide  and  a  nightcapped  head  popped  out. 

"Who  are  ye  that  disturb  honest  folk  at  this  time  of  night? 
My  house  is  closed.  'Tis  too  late  for  profitable  travellers  to 
be  abroad.  Cease  knocking  at  my  door,  and  be  off." 

"Open!"  spluttered  the  postilion,  loudly;  "open  for  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  voice  above.  "Ten  thousand  pardons, 
my  lord.  I  did  not  know  —  the  hour  is  so  late  —  at  once 
shall  the  door  be  opened,  and  the  house  placed  at  my  lord's 
disposal." 

Inside  was  heard  the  clink  of  chain  and  bar,  and  the  door 
*Vas  flung  open.  Shivering  with  chill  and  apprehension,  the 


6  Roads  of  Destiny 

landlord  of  the  Silver  Flagon  stood,  half  clad,  candle  in  hand, 
upon  the  threshold. 

David  followed  the  marquis  out  of  the  carriage.  "Assist 
the  lady/'  he  was  ordered.  The  poet  obeyed.  He  felt  her 
small  hand  tremble  as  he  guided  her  descent.  "Into  the 
house,"  was  the  next  command. 

The  room  was  the  long  dining-hall  of  the  tavern.  A 
great  oak  table  ran  down  its  length.  The  huge  gentleman 
seated  himself  in  a  chair  at  the  nearer  end.  The  lady  sank 
into  another  against  the  wall,  with  an  air  of  great  weariness. 
David  stood,  considering  how  best  he  might  now  take  his  leave 
and  continue  upon  his  way. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  landlord,  bowing  to  the  floor,  "h-had 
I  ex-expected  this  honour,  entertainment  would  have  been 
ready.  T-t-there  is  wine  and  cold  fowl  and  m-m-maybe  —  " 

"Candles,"  said  the  marquis,  spreading  the  fingers  of  one 
plump  white  hand  in  a  gesture  he  had. 

"Y-yes,  my  lord."  He  fetched  half  a  dozen  candles,  lighted 
them,  and  set  them  upon  the  table. 

"If  monsieur  would,  perhaps,  deign  to  taste  a  certain  Bur 
gundy  —  there  is  a  cask  —  " 

"Candles,"  said  monsieur,  spreading  his  fingers. 

"Assuredly  —  quickly  —  I  fly,  my  lord." 

A  dozen  more  lighted  candles  shone  in  the  hall.  The  great 
bulk  of  the  marquis  overflowed  his  chair.  He  was  dressed 
in  fine  black  from  head  to  foot  save  for  the  snowy  ruffles  at 
his  wrist  and  throat.  Even  the  hilt  and  scabbard  of  his 
sword  were  black.  His  expression  was  one  of  sneering  pride. 
The  ends  of  an  upturned  moustache  reached  nearly  to  his 
mocking  eyes. 

The  lady  sat  motionless,  and  now  David  perceived  that 
she  was  young,  and  possessed  of  pathetic  and  appealing 
beauty.  He  was  startled  from  the  contemplation  of  her  for 
lorn  loveliness  by  the  booming  voice  of  the  marquis. 


Roads  of  Destiny  7 

"What  is  your  name  and  pursuit  ?" 

"David  Mignot.     I  am  a  poet." 

The  moustache  of  the  marquis  curled  nearer  to  his  eyes. 

"How  do  you  live?" 

"I  am  also  a  shepherd;  I  guarded  my  father's  flock/'  David 
answered,  with  his  head  high,  but  a  flush  upon  his  cheek. 

"Then  listen,  master  shepherd  and  poet,  to  the  fortune 
you  have  blundered  upon  to-night.  This  lady  is  my  niece, 
Mademoiselle  Lucie  de  Varennes.  She  is  of  noble  descent 
and  is  possessed  of  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  in  her  own 
right.  As  to  her  charms,  you  have  but  to  observe  for  your 
self.  If  the  inventory  pleases  your  shepherd's  heart,  she 
becomes  your  wife  at  a  word.  Do  not  interrupt  me.  To 
night  I  conveyed  her  to  the  chateau  of  the  Comte  de  Villemaur, 
to  whom  her  hand  had  been  promised.  Guests  were  present  5 
the  priest  was  waiting;  her  marriage  to  one  eligible  in  rank 
and  fortune  was  ready  to  be  accomplished.  At  the  altar  this 
demoiselle,  so  meek  and  dutiful,  turned  upon  me  like  a  leop 
ardess,  charged  me  with  cruelty  and  crimes,  and  broke,  before 
the  gaping  priest,  the  troth  I  had  plighted  for  her.  I  swore 
there  and  then,  by  ten  thousand  devils,  that  she  should  marry 
the  first  man  we  met  after  leaving  the  chateau,  be  he  prince, 
charcoal-burner,  or  thief.  You,  shepherd,  are  the  first. 
Mademoiselle  must  be  wed  this  night.  If  not  you,  then  an 
other.  You  have  ten  minutes  in  which  to  make  your  decision. 
Do  not  vex  me  with  words  or  questions.  Ten  minutes,  shep 
herd;  and  they  are  speeding." 

The  Marquis  drummed  loudly  with  his  white  fingers  upon 
the  table.  He  sank  into  a  veiled  attitude  of  waiting.  It  was 
as  if  some  great  house  had  shut  its  doors  and  windows  against 
approach.  David  would  have  spoken,  but  the  huge  man's 
bearing  stopped  his  tongue.  Instead,  he  stood  by  the  lady's 
chair  and  bowed. 

^Mademoiselle/'    he    said,    and   he    marvelled    to    find   hi«/ 


8  Roads  of  Destiny 

words  flowing  easily  before  so  much  elegance  and  beauty. 
"You  have  heard  me  cay  I  was  a  shepherd.  I  have  also  had 
the  fancy,  at  timec,  that  I  am  a  poet.  If  i'  be  the  test  of 
a  poet  to  adore  and  cherish  the  beautiful,  that  fancy  is  now 
strengthened.  Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way,  mademoiselle?" 

The  young  woman  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  dry  and 
mournful.  His  frank,  glowinj  face,  made  serious  by  the 
gravity  of  the  adventure,  his  strong,  straight  figure  and  the 
liquid  sympathy  in  his  blue  eyes,  perhaps,  also,  her  imminent 
need  of  long-denied  help  and  kindness,  thawed  her  to  sudden 
tears. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  i  i  low  tones,  "you  look  to  be  true 
and  kind.  He  is  my  uncle,  the  brother  of  my  father,  anJ 
my  only  relative.  He  loved  my  mother,  and  he  hates  me 
because  I  am  like  her.  He  has  made  my  life  one  long  ter 
ror.  I  am  afraid  of  his  very  looks,  and  never  before  dared 
to  disobey  him.  But  to-night  he  would  have  married  me  to 
a  man  three  times  my  age.  You  will  forgive  me  for  bringing 
this  vexation  upon  you,  monsieur.  You  will,  of  course,  decline 
this  mad  act  he  tries  to  force  upon  you.  But  let  me  thank 
you  for  your  generous  words,  at  least.  I  have  had  none 
spoken  to  me  in  so  long." 

There  was  now  something  more  than  generosity  in  the 
poet's  eyes.  Poet  he  must  have  been,  for  Yvonne  was  for 
gotten  ;  this  fine,  new  loveliness  held  him  with  its  freshness  and 
grace.  The  subtle  perfume  from  her  filled  him  with  strange 
emotions.  His  tender  look  fell  warmly  upon  her.  She  leaned 
to  it,  thirstily. 

"Ten  minutes,"  said  David,  "is  given  me  in  which  to  do 
what  I  would  devote  years  to  achieve.  I  will  not  say  I  pity 
you,  mademoiselle ;  it  would  not  be  true  —  I  love  you.  I 
cannot  ask  love  from  you  yet,  but  let  me  rescue  you  from 
this  cruel  man,  and,  in  time,  love  may  come.  I  think  I  have 
CL  future.*  I  will  not  always  be  a  shepherd.  For  the  present 


Poads  of  Destiny  9 

I  will  cherish  YOU  with  all  my  heart  and  make  your  life  less 
sad.  Will  you  trust  your  fate  to  me,  mademoiselle?" 

"Ah,  you  would  sacrifice  yourself  from  pity  !" 

"From  love.     The  time  is  almost  up,  mademoiselle." 

"You  will  regret  it,  and  despise  me." 

"I  will  live  only  to  make  you  happy,  and  myself  worthy 
of  you." 

Her  fine  small  hand  crept  into  his  from  beneath  her 
cloak. 

"I  will  trust  you,"  she  breathed,  "with  my  life.  And  — 
and  love  —  may  not  be  so  far  off  as  you  think.  Tell  him. 
Once  away  from  the  power  of  his  eyes  I  may  forget." 

David  went  and  stood  before  the  marquis.  The  black  fig 
ure  stirred,  and  the  mocking  eyes  glanced  at  the  great  hall 
clock. 

"Two  minutes  to  spare.  A  shepherd  requires  eight  min 
utes  to  decide  whether  he  will  accept  a  bride  of  beauty  arid 
income !  Speak  up,  shepherd,  do  you  consent  to  become 
mademoiselle's  husband?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  David,  standing  proudly,  "has  done 
me  the  honour  to  yield  to  my  request  that  she  become  my 
wife." 

"Well  said !"  said  the  marquis.  "You  have  yet  the  mak 
ing  of  a  courtier  in  you,  master  shepherd.  Mademoiselle  could 
have  drawn  a  worse  prize,  after  all.  And  now  to  be  done  with 
the  affair  as  quick  as  the  Church  and  the  devil  will  allow !" 

He  struck  the  table  soundly  with  his  sword  hilt.  The 
landlord  came,  knee-shaking,  bringing  more  candles  in  the 
hope  of  anticipating  the  great  lord's  whims.  "Fetch  a 
priest,"  said  the  marquis,  "a  priest;  do  you  understand?  In 
ten  minutes  have  a  priest  here,  or  —  " 

The  landlord  dropped  his  candles  and  flew. 

The  priest  came,  heavy-eyed  and  ruffled.  He  made  David 
Mignot  and  Lucie  de  Varennes  man  and  wife,  pocketed  a 


10  Roads  of  Destiny 

gold  piece  that  the  marquis  tossed  him,  and  shuffled  out  again 
into  the  night. 

"Wine/'  ordered  the  marquis,  spreading  his  ominous  fin 
gers  at  the  host. 

"Fill  glasses,"  he  said,  when  it  was  brought.  He  stood 
up  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  the  candlelight,  a  black  moun 
tain  of  venom  and  conceit,  with  something  like  the  memory 
of  an  old  love  turned  to  poison  in  his  eye,  as  it  fell  upon  his 
niece. 

"Monsieur  Mignot,"  he  said,  raising  his  wineglass,  "drink 
after  I  say  this  to  you:  You  have  taken  to  be  your  wife  one 
who  will  make  your  life  a  foul  and  wretched  thing.  The 
blood  in  her  is  an  inheritance  running  black  lies  and  red  ruin. 
She  will  bring  you  shame  and  anxiety.  The  devil  that  de 
scended  to  her  is  there  in  her  eyes  and  skin  and  mouth  that 
stoop  even  to  beguile  a  peasant.  There  is  your  promise,  mon 
sieur  poet,  for  a  happy  life.  Drink  your  wine.  At  last, 
mademoiselle,  I  am  rid  of  you." 

The  marquis  drank.  A  little  grievous  cry,  as  if  from  a 
sudden  wound,  came  from  the  girl's  lips.  David,  with  his 
glass  in  his  hand,  stepped  forward  three  paces  a*.J  faced  the 
marquis.  There  was  little  of  a  shepherd  in  his  bearing. 

"Just  now,"  he  said,  calmly,  "you  did  me  the  honour  to 
call  me  'monsieur/  May  I  hope,  therefore,  that  my  marriage 
to  mademoiselle  has  placed  me  somewhat  nearer  to  you  in  — 
let  us  say,  reflected  rank  —  has  given  me  the  right  to  stand 
more  as  an  equal  to  monseigneur  in  a  certain  little  piece  of 
business  I  have  in  my  mind?" 

"You  may  hope,  shepherd,"  sneered  the  marquis. 

"Then,"  said  David,  dashing  his  glass  of  wine  into  the 
contemptuous  eyes  that  mocked  him,  "perhaps  you  will  con 
descend  to  fight  me." 

The  fury  of  the  great  lord  outbroke  in  one  sudden  curse 
like  a  blast  from  a  horn.  He  tore  his  sword  from  its  black 


Roads  of  Destiny  11 

sheath;  he  called  to  the  hovering  landlord:  "A  sword  there, 
for  this  lout!"  He  turned  to  the  lady,  with  a  laugh  that 
chilled  her  heart,  and  said:  "You  put  much  labour  upon  me, 
madame.  It  seems  I  must  find  you  a  husband  and  make  you 
a  widow  in  the  same  night." 

"I  know  not  sword-play,"  said  David.  He  flushed  to  make 
the  confession  before  his  lady. 

"  'I  know  not  sword-play/ "  mimicked  the  marquis. 
"Shall  we  fight  like  peasants  with  oaken  cudgels?  Hola! 
Fran9ois,  my  pistols !" 

A  postilion  brought  two  shining  great  pistols  ornamented 
with  carven  silver,  from  the  carriage  holsters.  The  marquis 
tossed  one  upon  the  table  near  David's  hand.  "To  the  other 
end  of  the  tabl*  "  *ie  cried;  "even  a  shepherd  may  pull  a 
trigger,  t  ew  of  them  attain  the  honour  to  die  by  the  weapon 
of  a  De  Beaupertuys." 

The  shepherd  and  the  marquis  faced  each  other  from  the 
ends  01  the  long  table.  The  landlord,  in  an  ague  of  terror, 
clutched  the  air  and  stammered:  "M-M-Monseigneur,  for 
the  love  of  Christ!  not  in  my  house!  —  do  not  spill  blood  — 
it  will  ruin  my  custom — "  The  look  of  the  marquis,  threaten 
ing  him,  paralyzed  his  tongue. 

"Coward,"  cried  the  lord  of  Beaupertuys,  "cease  chatter 
ing  your  teeth  long  enough  to  give  the  word  for  us,  if  you 
can." 

Mine  host's  knees  smote  the  floor.  He  was  without  a  vo 
cabulary.  Even  sounds  \  :re  beyond  him.  Still,  by  gestures 
he  seemed  to  beseech  peac>  in  the  name  of  his  house  and  cus 
tom. 

"I  Will  give  the  word,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  clear  voice. 
She  went  up  to  David  and  kissed  him  sweetly.  Her  eyes 
were  sparkling  bright,  and  colour  had  come  to  her  cheek. 
She  stood  against  the  wall,  and  the  two  men  levelled  their 
pistols  for  her  count. 


12  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Un  —  deux  —  trois!" 

The  two  reports  came  so  nearly  together  that  the  candles 
flickered  but  once.  The  marquis  stood,  smiling,  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  resting,  outspread,  upon  the  end  of  the  table. 
David  remained  erect,  and  turned  his  head  very  slowly,  search 
ing  for  his  wife  with  his  eyes.  Then,  as  a  garment  falls  from 
where  it  is  hung,  he  sank,  crumpled,  upon  the  floor. 

With  a  little  cry  of  terror  and  despair,  the  widowed  maid 
ran  and  stooped  above  him.  She  found  his  wound,  and  then 
looked  up  with  her  old  look  of  pale  melancholy.  "Through 
his  heart,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  his  heart !" 

"Come,"  boomed  the  great  voice  of  the  marquis,  "out  with 
you  to  the  carriage !  Daybreak  shall  not  find  you  on  my 
hands.  Wed  you  shall  be  again,  and  to  a  living  husband, 
this  night.  The  next  we  come  upon,  my  lady,  highwayman 
or  peasant.  If  the  road  yields  no  other,  then  the  churl  that 
opens  my  gates.  Out  with  you  to  the  carriage!" 

The  marquis,  implacab?0  and  huge,  the  lady  wrapped  again 
in  the  mystery  of  her  cloak,  the  postilion  bearing  the  weapons 
—  all  moved  out  to  the  waiting  carriage.  The  sound  of  its 
ponderous  wheels  rolling  away  echoed  through  the  slumbering 
village.  In  the  hall  of  the  Silver  Flagon  the  distracted  land 
lord  wrung  his  hands  above  the  slain  poet's  body,  while  the 
flames  of  the  four  and  twenty  candles  danced  and  flickered 
on  the  table. 

THE   RIGHT   BRANCH 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ra>  ,  and  turned  into  a  puzzle. 
It  joined  with  another  and  a  la'ger  road  at  right  angles. 
David  stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  took  the  road 
to  the  right. 

Whither  it  led  he  knew  not,  but  he  was  resolved  to  leave  Ver- 
noy  far  behind  that  night.  He  travelled  a  league  and  then 
passed  a  large  chateau  which  showed  testimony  of  recent  enter- 


Roads  of  Destiny  18 

Cainment.  Lights  shone  from  every  window;  from  the  great 
stone  gateway  ran  a  tracery  of  wheel  tracks  drawn  in  the  dust 
by  the  vehicles  of  the  guests. 

Three  leagues  farther  and  David  was  weary.  He  rested 
and  slept  for  a  while  on  a  bed  of  pine  boughs  at  the  road 
side.  Then  up  and  on  again  along  the  unknown  way. 

Thus  for  five  days  he  travelled  the  great  road,  sleeping 
upon  Nature's  balsamic  beds  or  in  peasants'  ricks,  eating  of 
their  black,  hospitable  bread,  drinking  from  streams  or  the 
willing  cup  of  the  goatherd. 

At  length  he  crossed  a  great  bridge  and  set  his  foot  within 
the  smiling  city  that  has  crushed  or  crowned  more  poets  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  His  breath  came  quickly  as  Paris 
sang  to  him  i_i  a  little  undertone  her  vital  chant  of  greeting  — 
the  hum  of  voice  and  foot  and  wheel. 

High  up  under  the  eaves  of  an  old  house  in  the  Rue  Conti, 
David  paid  for  lodging,  and  set  himself,  in  a  wooden  chair, 
to  his  poems.  The  street,  once  sheltering  citizens  of  import 
and  consequence,  was  now  given  over  to  those  who  ever  follow 
in  the  wake  of  decline. 

The  houses  were  tall  and  still  possessed  of  a  ruined  dignity, 
but  many  of  them  were  empty  save  for  dust  and  the  spider. 
By  night  there  was  the  clash  of  steel  and  the  cries  of  brawlers 
straying  restlessly  from  inn  to  inn.  Where  once  gentility 
abode  was  now  but  a  rancid  and  rude  incontinence.  But  here 
David  found  housing  commensurate  to  his  scant  purse.  Day 
light  and  candlelight  found  him  at  pen  and  paper. 

One  afternoon  he  was  returning  fro*-  a  foraging  trip  to 
the  lower  world,  with  bread  and  curds  and  a  bottle  of  thin 
wine.  Halfway  up  his  dark  stairway  he  met  —  or  rather 
came  upon,  for  she  rested  on  the  stair  —  a  young  woman  of  a 
beauty  that  should  balk  even  the  justice  o.  a  poet's  imagina 
tion.  A  loose,  dark  cloak,  flur~  open,  showed  a  rich  gown 
beneath.  Her  eyes  changed  swiftly  with  every  little  shade 


14  Roads  of  Destiny 

of  thought.  Within  one  moment  they  would  be  round  and 
artless  like  a  child's,  and  long  and  cozening  like  a  gypsy's. 
One  hand  raised  her  gown,  undraping  a  little  shoe,  high- 
heeled,  with  its  ribbons  dangling,  untied.  So  heavenly  she 
was,  so  unfitted  to  stoop,  so  qualified  to  charm  and  command ! 
Perhaps  she  had  seen  David  coming,  and  had  waited  for  his 
help  there. 

Ah,  would  monsieur  pardon  that  she  occupied  the  stairway, 
but  the  shoe !  —  the  naughty  shoe !  Alas  !  it  would  not  re 
main  tied.  Ah !  if  monsieur  would  be  so  gracious ! 

The  poet's  fingers  trembled  as  he  tied  the  contrary  ribbons. 
Then  he  would  have  fled  from  the  danger  of  her  presence, 
but  the  eyes  grew  long  and  cozening,  like  a  gypsy's,  and  held 
him.  He  leaned  against  the  balustrade,  clutching  his  bottle 
of  sour  wine. 

"You  have  been  so  good,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Does  mon 
sieur,  perhaps,  live  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,  madame.     I  —  I  think  so,  madame." 

"Perhaps  in  the  third  story,  then?" 

"No,  madame ;  higher  up." 

The  lady  fluttered  her  fingers  with  the  least  possible  ges 
ture  of  impatience. 

"Pardon.  Certainly  I  am  not  discreet  in  asking.  Mon 
sieur  will  forgive  me  ?  It  is  surely  not  becoming  that  I  should 
inquire  where  he  lodges." 

"Madame,  do  not  say  so.     I  live  in  the—" 

"No.  no,  no;  do  not  tell  me.     Now  I  see  that  I  erred.     But 

I  cannot  lose  the  interest  I  feel  in  this  house  and  all  that  is 

in  it.     Once  it  was   my   home.     Often   I   come   here  but  to 

dream  of  those  happy  days  again.     Will  you  let  that  be  my 

4where  the  stairs  turn." 

/  "Let  me  tell  you,  then,  for  you  need  no  excuse,"  stam- 
I  mered  the  poet.  "I  live  in  the  top  floor  —  the  small  room 
V excuse?" 


Roads  of  Destiny  15 

"In  the  front  room?"  asked  the  lady,  turning  her  head 
sidewise. 

"The  rear,  madame." 

The  lady  sighed,  as  if  with  relief. 

"I  will  detain  you  no  longer,  then,  monsieur,"  she  said, 
employing  the  round  and  artless  eye  "Take  good  care  of 
my  house.  Alas!  only  the  memories  of  it  are  mine  now. 
Adieu,  and  accept  my  thanks  for  your  courtesy." 

She  was  gone,  leaving  but  a  smile  and  a  trace  of  sweet 
perfume.  David  climbed  the  stairs  as  one  in  slumber.  But 
he  awoke  from  it,  and  the  smile  and  the  perfume  lingered 
with  him  and  never  afterward  did  either  seem  quite  to  leave 
him.  This  lady  of  whom  he  knew  nothing  drove  him  to  lyrics 
of  eyes,  chansons  of  swiftly  conceived  love,  odes  to  curling 
hair,  and  sonnets  to  slippers  on  slender  feet. 

Poet  he  must  have  been,  for  Yvonne  was  forgotten;  this 
fine,  new  loveliness  held  him  with  its  freshness  and  grace. 
The  subtle  perfume  about  her  filled  him  with  strange  emotions. 

On  a  certain  night  three  persons  were  gathered  about  a 
table  in  a  room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  same  house.  Three 
chairs  and  the  table  and  a  lighted  candle  upon  it  was  all  the 
furniture.  One  of  the  persons  was  a  huge  man,  dressed  in 
black.  His  expression  was  one  of  sneering  pride.  The  ends 
of  his  upturned  moustache  reached  nearly  to  his  mocking  eyes. 
Another  was  a  lady,  young  and  beautiful,  with  eyes  that  could 
be  round  and  artless,  like  a  child's,  or  long  and  cozening,  like 
a  gipsy's,  but  were  now  keen  and  ambitious,  like  any  other 
conspirator's.  The  third  was  a  man  of  action,  a  combatant, 
a  bold  and  impatient  executive,  breathing  fire  and  steel.  He 
was  addressed  by  the  others  as  Captain  Desrolles. 

This  man  struck  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  said,  with  con 
trolled  violence: 

"To-night.     To-night  as  he  goes  to  midnight  mass.     I  am 


16  Roads  of  Destiny 

tired  of  the  plotting  that  gets  nowhere.  I  am  sick  of  signals 
and  ciphers  and  secret  meetings  and  such  baragouin.  Let  us 
be  honest  traitors.  If  France  is  to  be  rid  of  him,,  let  us  kill 
in  the  open,  *nd  not  hunt  with  snares  and  traps.  To-night, 
I  say.  I  back  my  words.  My  hand  will  do  the  deed.  To 
night,  as  he  goes  to  mass." 

The  lady  turned  upon  him  a  cordial  look.  Woman,  how 
ever  wedded  to  plots,  must  ever  thus  bow  to  rash  courage. 
The  big  man  stroked  his  upturned  moustache. 

"Dear  captain,"  he  said,  in  a  great  voice,  softened  by  habit, 
"this  time  I  agree  with  you.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by 
•waiting.  Enough  of  the  palace  guards  belong  to  us  to  make 
the  endeavour  a  safe  one." 

"To-night,"  repeated  Captain  Desrolles,  again  striking. the 
table.  "You  have  heard  me,  marquis;  my  hand  will  do  the' 
deed." 

"But  now,"  said  the  huge  man.  softly,  "comes  a  question. 
Word  must  be  sent  to  our  partisans  in  the  palace,  and  a  signal 
agreed  upon.  Our  stanchest  men  must  accompany  the  royal 
carriage.  At  this  hour  what  messenger  can  penetrate  so  far 
as  the  south  doorway  ?  Ribout  is  stationed  there ;  once  a  mes 
sage  is  placed  in  his  hands,  all  will  go  well." 

"I  will  send  the  message,"  said  the  lady. 

"You,  countess?"  said  the  marquis,  raising  his  eyebrows. 
"Your  devotion  is  great,  we  know,  but  —  " 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  rising  and  resting  her  hands 
upon  the  table;  "in  a  garret  of  this  house  lives  a  youth  from 
the  provinces  as  guileless  and  tender  as  the  lambs  he  tended 
there.  I  have  met  him  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  stairs.  I 
questioned  him,  fearing  that  he  might  dwell  too  near  the 
room  in  which  we  are  accustomed  to  meet.  He  is  mine,  if  I 
will.  He  writes  poems  in  his  garret,  and  I  think  he  dreams 
of  me.  He  will  do  what  I  say.  He  shall  take  the  message 
to  the  palace." 


Roads  of  Destiny  IT 

The  marquis  rose  from  his  chair  and  bowed.  "You  did 
not  permit  me  to  finish  my  sentence,  countess/'  he  said.  "I 
would  have  said:  'Your  devotion  fs  great,  but  your  wit  and 
charm  are  infinitely  greater.'  " 

While  the  conspirators  were  thus  engaged,  David  was  pol 
ishing  some  lines  addressed  to  his  amorette  d'escalier.  He 
heard  a  timorous  knock  at  his  door,  and  opened  it,  with  a 
great  throb,  to  behold  her  there,  panting  as  one  in  straits, 
with  eyes  wide  open  and  artless,  like  a  child's. 

"Monsieur,"  she  breathed,  "I  come  to  you  in  distress.  I 
believe  you  to  be  good  and  true,  and  I  know  of  no  other  help. 
How  I  flew  through  the  streets  among  the  swaggering  men! 
Monsieur,  my  mother  is  dying.  My  uncle  is  a  captain  of 
guards  in  the  palace  of  the  king.  Some  one  must  fly  to  bring 
him.  May  I  hope  —  " 

"Mademoiselle,"  interrupted  David,  his  eyes  shining  with 
the  desire  to  do  her  service,  "your  hopes  shall  be  my  wings. 
Tell  me  how  I  may  reach  him." 

The  lady  thrust  a  sealed  paper  into  his  hand. 

"Go  to  the  south  gate  —  the  south  gate,  mind  —  and  say 
to  the  guards  there,  'The  falcon  has  left  his  nest.'  They 
will  pass  you,  and  you  will  go  to  the  south  entrance  to  the 
palace.  Repeat  the  words,  and  give  this  letter  to  the  man 
who  will  reply  'Let  him  strike  when  he  will.'  This  is  the 
password,  monsieur,  entrusted  to  me  by  my  uncle,  for  now 
when  the  country  is  disturbed  and  men  plot  against  the  king's 
life,  no  one  without  it  can  gain  entrance  to  the  palace  grounds 
after  nightfall.  If  you  will,  monsieur,  take  him  this  letter 
so  that  my  mother  may  see  him  before  she  closes  her  eyes." 

"Give  it  me."  said  David,  eagerly.  "But  shall  I  let  you 
return  home  through  the  streets  alone  so  late  ?  I  —  " 

"No,  no  —  fly.  Each  moment  is  like  a  precious  jewel. 
Some  time,"  said  the  lady,  with  eyes  long  and  cozening,  like  at 
gipsy's,  "I  will  try  to  thank  you  for  your  goodness." 


18  Roads  of  Destiny 

The  poet  thrust  the  letter  into  his  breast,  and  bounded  down 
the  stairway.  The  lady,  when  he  was  gone,  returned  to  the 
room  below. 

The  eloquent  eyebrows  of  the  marquis  interrogated  her. 

"He  is  gone,"  she  said,  "as  fleet  and  stupid  as  one  of  his 
own  sheep,  to  deliver  it." 

The  table  shook  again  from  the  batter  of  Captain  Desrol- 
les's  -fist. 

"Sacred  name!"  he  cried;  "I  have  left  my  pistols  behind! 
I  can  trust  no  others." 

"Take  this,"  said  the  marquis,  drawing  from  beneath  his 
cloak  a  shining,  great  weapon,  ornamented  with  carven  silver. 
"There  are  none  truer.  But  guard  it  closely,  for  it  bears 
my  arms  and  crest,  and  already  I  am  suspected.  Me,  I  must 
put  many  leagues  between  myself  and  Paris  this  night.  To 
morrow  must  find  me  in  my  chateau.  After  you.  dear  count 
ess." 

The  marquis  puffed  out  the  candle.  The  lady,  well  cloaked, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  softly  descended  the  stairway  and 
flowed  into  the  crowd  that  roamed  along  the  narrow  pave 
ments  of  the  Rue  Conti. 

David  sped.  At  the  south  gate  of  the  king's  residence  a 
halberd  was  laid  to  his  breast,  but  he  turned  its  point  with 
the  words:  "The  falcon  has  left  his  nest." 

"Pass,  brother,"  said  the  guard,  "and  go  quickly." 

On  the  south  steps  of  the  palace  they  moved  to  seize  him, 
but  again  the  mot  de  passe  charmed  the  watchers.  One  among 
them  stepped  forward  and  began:  "Let  him  strike  —  "  but  a 
flurry  among  the  guards  told  of  a  surprise.  A  man  of  keen 
look  and  soldierly  stride  suddenly  pressed  through  them  a^d 
seized  the  letter  which  David  held  in  his  hand.  "Come  with 
me,"  he  said,  and  led  him  inside  the  great  hall.  Then  he 
tore  open  the  letter  and  read  it.  He  beckoned  to  a  man  uni 
formed  as  an  officer  of  musketeers,  who  was  passing.  "Cap- 


Roads  of  Destiny  19 

tain  Tetreau,  you  will  have  the  guards  at  the  south  entrance 
and  the  south  gate  arrested  and  confined.  Place  men  known 
to  be  loyal  in  their  places."  To  David  he  said:  "Come  with 
me." 

He  conducted  him  through  a  corridor  and  an  anteroom  into 
a  spacious  chamber,  where  a  melancholy  man,  sombrely 
dressed,  sat  brooding  in  a  great,  leather-covered  chair.  To 
that  man  he  said: 

"Sire,  I  have  told  you  that  the  palace  is  as  full  of  traitors 
and  spies  as  a  sewer  is  of  rats.  You  have  thought,  sire,  that 
it  was  my  fancy.  This  man  penetrated  to  your  very  door 
by  their  connivance.  He  bore  a  letter  which  I  have  inter 
cepted.  I  have  brought  him  here  that  your  majesty  may  no 
longer  think  my  zeal  excessive." 

"I  will  question  him,"  said  the  king,  stirring  in  his  chair. 
He  looked  at  David  with  heavy  eyes  dulled  by  an  opaque 
film.  The  poet  bent  his  knee. 

"From  where  do  you  come?"  asked  the  king. 

"From  the  village  of  Vernoy,  in  the  province  of  Eure-et- 
Loir,  sire." 

"What  do  you  follow  in  Paris  ?" 

"I  —  I  would  be  a  poet,  sire." 

"What  did  you  in  Vernoy  ?" 

"I  minded  my  father's  flock  of  sheep." 

The  king  stirred  again,  and  the  film  lifted  from  his  eyes. 

"Ah !  in  the  fields !" 

"Yes,  sire." 

"You  lived  in  the  fields;  you  went  out  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning  and  lay  among  the  hedges  in  the  grass.  The  flock 
distributed  itself  upon  the  hillside;  you  drank  of  the  living 
stream;  you  ate  your  sweet,  brown  bread  in  the  shade,  and 
you  listened,  doubtless,  to  blackbirds  piping  in  the  grove.  Is 
not  that  so,  shepherd?" 

"It  is,  sire,"   answered  David,  with   a   sigh;   "and  to  the 


20  Roads  of  Destiny 

bees  at  the  flowers,  and,  maybe,  to  the  grape  gatherers  singing 
on  the  hill." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  king,  impatiently;  "maybe  to  them; 
but  surely  to  the  blackbirds.  They  whistled  often,  in  the 
grove,  did  they  not?" 

"Nowhere,  sire,  so  sweetly  as  in  Eure-et-Loir.  I  have 
endeavoured  to  express  their  song  in  some  verses  that  I  have 
written." 

"Can  you  repeat  those  verses?"  asked  the  king,  eagerly. 
"A  long  time  ago  I  listened  to  the  blackbirds.  It  would  be 
something  better  than  a  kingdom  if  one  could  rightly  con 
strue  their  song.  And  at  night  you  drove  the  sheep  to  the 
fold  and  then  sat,  in  peace  and  tranquillity,  to  your  pleasant 
bread.  Can  you  repeat  those  verses,  shepherd?" 

"They  run  this  way,  sire."  said  David,  with  respectful  ar 
dour: 


shepherd,  see  your  lambkins 
Skip,  ecstatic,  on  the  mead; 
See  the  firs  dance  in  the  breezes, 
Hear  Pan  blowing  at  his  reed. 

"Hear  us  calling  from  the  tree-tops, 

See  us  swoop  upon  your  flock; 
Yield  us  wool  to  make  our  nests  warm 
In  the  branches  of  the  —  '" 

"If  it  please  your  majesty,"  interrupted  a  harsh  voice,  "I 
will  ask  a  question  or  two  of  this  rhymester.  There  is  little 
time  to  spare.  I  crave  pardon,  sire,  if  my  anxiety  for  your 
safety  offends." 

"The  loyalty,"  said  the  king,  "of  the  Duke  d'Aumale  is 
too  well  proven  to  give  offence."  He  sank  into  his  chair,  and 
the  film  came  again  over  his  eyes. 

"First,"  said  the  duke,  "I  will  read  you  the  letter  he 
brought  : 


Roads  of  Destiny  21 

"  'To-night  is  the  anniversary  of  the  dauphin's  death.  If  he  goes, 
as  is  his  custom,  to  midnight  mass  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  his  son, 
the  falcon  will  strike,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Esplanade.  If  this  be 
his  intention,  set  a  red  light  in  the  upper  room  at  the  southwest  cor 
ner  of  the  palace,  that  the  falcon  may  take  heed.' 

"Peasant."  said  the  duke,  sternly,  "you  have  heard  these 
words.  Who  gave  you  this  message  to  bring?" 

"My  lord  duke,"  said  David,  sincerely,  "I  will  tell  you. 
A  lady  gave  it  me.  She  said  her  mother  was  ill,  and  that  this 
writing  would  fetch  her  uncle  to  her  bedside.  I  do  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  letter,  but  I  will  swear  that  she  is  beau 
tiful  and  good." 

"Describe  the  woman,"  commanded  the  duke,  "and  how  you 
came  to  be  her  dupe." 

"Describe  her!"  said  David  with  a  tender  smile.  "You 
would  command  words  to  perform  miracles.  Well,  she  is 
made  of  sunshine  and  deep  shade.  She  is  slender,  like  the 
alders,  and  moves  with  their  grace.  Her  eyes  change  while 
you  gaze  into  them;  now  round,  and  then  half  shut  as  the 
sun  peeps  between  two  clouds.  When  she  comes,  heaven  is 
all  about  her;  when  she  leaves,  there  is  chaos  and  a  scent  of 
hawthorn  blossoms.  She  came  to  me  in  the  Rue  Conti,  num 
ber  twenty-nine." 

"It  is  the  house,"  said  the  duke,  turning  to  the  king,  "that 
we  have  been  watching.  Thanks  to  the  poet's  tongue,  we  have 
a  picture  of  the  infamous  Countess  Quebedaux." 

"Sire  and  my  lord  duke,"  said  David,  earnestly,  "I  hope 
my  poor  words  have  done  no  injustice.  I  have  looked  into 
that  lady's  eyes.  I  will  stake  my  life  that  she  is  an  angel, 
letter  or  no  letter." 

The  duke  looked  at  him  steadily.  "I  will  pnt  you  to  the 
proof,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Dressed  as  the  king,  you  shall, 
yourself,  attend  mass  in  his  carriage  at  midnight.  Do  you 
accept  the  test?" 


22  Roads  of  Destiny 

David  smiled.  "I  have  looked  into  her  eyes,"  he  said. 
"I  had  my  proof  there.  Take  yours  how  you  will." 

Half  an  hour  before  twelve  the  Duke  d'Aumale.  with  his 
own  hands,  set  a  red  lamp  in  a  southwest  window  of  the  palace. 
At  ten  minutes  to  the  hour,  David,  leaning  on  his  arm, 
dressed  as  the  king,  from  top  to  toe,  with  his  head  bowed  in 
his  cloak,  walked  slowly  from  the  royal  apartments  to  the 
waiting  carriage.  The  duke  assisted  him  inside  and  closed 
the  door.  The  carriage  whirled  away  along  its  route  to  the 
cathedral. 

On  the  qui  vive  in  a  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Espla 
nade  was  Captain  Tetreau  with  twenty  men,  ready  to  pounce 
upon  the  conspirators  when  they  should  appear. 

But  it  seemed  that,  for  some  reason,  the  plotters  had 
slightly  altered  their  plans.  When  the  royal  carriage  had 
reached  the  Rue  Christopher,  one  square  nearer  than  the 
Rue  Esplanade,  forth  from  it  burst  Captain  Desrolles,  with 
his  band  of  would-be  regicides,  and  assailed  the  equipage. 
The  guards  upon  the  carriage,  though  surprised  at  the  prema 
ture  attack,  descended  and  fought  valiantly.  The  noise  of 
conflict  attracted  the  force  of  Captain  Tetreau,  and  they  came 
pelting  down  the  street  to  the  rescue.  But.  in  the  meantime, 
the  desperate  Desrolles  had  torn  open  the  door  of  the  King's 
carriage,  thrust  his  weapon  against  the  body  of  the  dark  fig 
ure  inside,  and  fired. 

Now,  with  loyal  reinforcements  at  hand,  the  street  rang 
with  cries  and  the  rasp  of  steel,  but  the  frightened  horses  had 
dashed  away.  Upon  the  cushions  lay  the  dead  body  of  the 
poor  mock  king  and  poet,  slain  by  a  ball  from  the  pistol  of 
Monseigneur,  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys. 

THE    MAIN    ROAD 

Three  leagues,  then,  the  road  ran,  and  turned  into  a  puzzle. 
It  joined  with  another  and  a  larger  road  at  right  angles. 


Roads  of  Destiny  23 

David  stood,  uncertain,  for  a  while,  and  then  sat  himself  to 
rest  upon  its  side. 

Whithei  those  roads  led  he  knew  not.  Either  way  there 
seemed  to  lie  a  great  world  full  of  chance  and  peril.  And 
then,  sitting  there,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  bright  star,  one  that 
he  and  Yvonne  had  named  for  theirs.  That  set  him  think 
ing  of  Yvonne,  and  he  wondered  if  he  had  not  been  too 
hasty.  Why  should  he  leave  her  and  his  home  because  a  few 
hot  words  had  come  between  them?  Was  love  so  brittle  a 
thing  that  jealousy,  the  very  proof  of  it,  could  break  it? 
Mornings  always  brought  a  cure  for  the  little  heartaches  of 
evening.  There  was  yet  time  for  him  to  return  home  with 
out  any  one  in  the  sweetly  sleeping  village  of  Vernoy  being 
the  wiser.  His  heart  was  Yvonne's ;  there  where  he  had  lived 
always  he  could  write  his  poems  and  find  his  happiness. 

David  rose,  and  shook  off  his  unrest  and  the  wild  mood 
that  had  tempted  him.  He  set  his  face  steadfastly  back 
along  the  road  he  had  come.  By  the  time  he  had  retravelled 
the  road  to  Vernoy,  his  desire  to  rove  was  gone.  He  passed 
the  sheep  fold,  and  the  sheep  scurried,  with  a  drumming  flutter, 
at  his  late  footsteps,  warming  his  heart  by  the  homely  sound. 
He  crept  without  noise  into  his  little  room  and  lay  there, 
thankful  that  his  feet  had  escaped  the  distress  of  new  roads 
that  night. 

How  well  he  knew  woman's  heart!  The  next  evening 
Yvonne  was  at  the  well  in  the  road  where  the  young  con 
gregated  in  order  that  the  cure  might  have  business.  The 
corner  of  her  eye  was  engaged  in  a  search  for  David,  albeit 
her  set  mouth  seemed  unrelenting.  He  saw  the  look;  braved 
the  mouth,  drew  from  it  a  recantation  and,  later,  a  kiss  as  they 
walked  homeward  together. 

Three  months  afterward  they  were  married.  David's  father 
was  shrewd  and  prosperous.  He  gave  them  a  wedding  that 
was  heard  of  three  leagues  away.  Both  the  young  people 


24  Roads  of  Destiny 

were  favourites  in  the  village.  There  was  a  procession  in  the 
streets,  a  dance  on  the  green;  they  had  the  marionettes  and  a 
tumbler  out  from  Dreux  to  delight  the  guests. 

Then  a  year,  and  David's  father  died.  The  sheep  and  the 
cottage  descended  to  him.  He  already  had  the  seemliest  wife 
in  the  village.  Yvonne's  milk  pails  and  her  brass  kettles  were 
bright  —  ouf!  they  blinded  you  in  the  sun  when  you  passed 
that  way.  But  you  must  keep  your  eyes  upon  her  yard,  for 
her  flower  beds  were  so  neat  and  gay  they  restored  to  you 
your  sight.  And  you  might  hear  her  sing,  aye,  as  far  as  the 
double  chestnut  tree  above  Pere  Gruneau's  blacksmith  forge. 

But  a  day  came  when  David  drew  out  paper  from  a  long- 
shut  drawer,  and  began  to  bite  the  end  of  a  pencil.  Spring 
had  come  again  and  touched  his  heart.  Poet  he  must  have 
been,  for  now  Yvonne  was  well-nigh  forgotten.  This  fine 
new  loveliness  of  earth  held  him  with  its  witchery  and  grace. 
The  perfume  from  her  woods  and  meadows  stirred  him 
strangely.  Daily  had  he  gone  forth  with  his  flock,  and 
brought  it  safe  at  night.  But  now  he  stretched  himself  under 
the  hedge  and  pieced  words  together  on  his  bits  of  paper. 
The  sheep  strayed,  and  the  wolves,  perceiving  that  difficult 
poems  make  easy  mutton,  ventured  from  the  woods  and  stole 
his  lambs. 

David's  stock  of  poems  grew  larger  and  his  flock  smaller. 
Yvonne's  nose  and  temper  waxed  sharp  and  her  talk  blunt. 
Her  pans  and  kettles  grew  dull,  but  her  eyes  had  caught  their 
flash.  She  pointed  out  to  the  poet  that  his  neglect  was  re 
ducing  the  flock  and  bringing  woe  upon  the  household.  David 
hired  a  boy  to  guard  the  sheep,  locked  himself  in  the  little 
room  in  the  top  of  the  cottage,  and  wrote  more  poems.  The 
boy,  being  a  poet  by  nature,  but  not  furnished  with  an  outlet 
in  the  Wt»y  of  writing,  spent  his  time  in  slumber.  The  wolves 
lost  no  time  in  discovering  that  poetry  and  sleep  are  practi 
cally  the  same;  so  the  flock  steadily  grew  smaller.  Yvonne's 
e 


Roads  of  Destiny  25 

ill  temper  increased  at  an  equal  rate.  Sometimes  she  would 
stand  in  the  yard  and  rail  at  David  through  his  high  win 
dow.  Then  you  could  hear  her  as  far  as  the  double  chest 
nut  tree  above  Pere  Gruneau's  blacksmith  forge. 

M.  Papineau,  the  kind,  wise,  meddling  old  notary,  saw 
this,  as  he  saw  everything  at  which  his  nose  pointed.  He  went 
to  David,  fortified  himself  with  a  great  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
said: 

"Friend  Mignot.  I  affixed  the  seal  upon  the  marriage  cer 
tificate  of  your  father.  It  would  distress  me  to  be  obliged  to 
attest  a  paper  signifying  the  bankruptcy  of  his  son.  But 
that  is  what  you  are  coming  to.  I  speak  as  an  old  friend. 
Now,  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  You  have  your  heart  set, 
I  perceive,  upon  poetry.  At  Dreux,  1  have  a  friend,  one 
Monsieur  Bril  —  Georges  Bril.  He  lives  in  a  little  cleared 
space  in  a  houseful  of  books.  He  is  a  learned  man;  he 
visits  Paris  each  year;  he  himself  has  written  books.  He  will 
tell  you  when  the  catacombs  were  made,  how  they  found  out 
the  names  of  the  stars,  and  why  tho  plover  has  a  long  bill. 
The  meaning  and  the  form  of  poetry  is  to  him  as  intelligent 
as  the  baa  of  a  sheep  is  to  you.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to 
him,  and  you  shall  take  him  your  poems  and  let  him  read  them. 
Then  you  will  know  if  you  shall  write  more,  or  give  your 
attention  to  your  wife  and  business." 

"Write  the  letter,"  said  David,  "I  ain  sorry  you  did  not 
speak  of  this  sooner." 

At  sunrise  the  next  morning  he  was  on  the  road  to  Dreux 
with  the  precious  roll  of  poems  under  his  arm.  At  noon  he 
wiped  the  dust  from  his  feet  at  the  door  of  Monsieur  Bril. 
That  learned  man  broke  the  seal  of  M.  Papineau's  letter,  and 
sucked  up  its  contents  through  his  gleaming  spectacles  as  the 
sun  draws  water.  He  took  David  inside  to  his  study  and  sat 
him  down  upon  a  little  island  beat  upon  by  a  sea  of  books. 

Monsieur  Bril  had  a  conscience.     He  flinched  not  even  at 


26  Roads  of  Destiny 

a  mass  of  manuscript  the  thickness  of  a  finger  length  and 
rolled  to  an  incorrigible  curve.  He  broke  the  back  of  the 
roll  against  his  knee  and  began  to  read.  He  slighted  noth 
ing;  he  bored  into  the  lump  as  a  worm  into  a  nut,  seeking  for 
a  kernel. 

Meanwhile,  David  sat,  marooned,  trembling  in  the  spray 
of  so  much  literature.  It  roared  in  his  ears.  He  held  no 
chart  or  compass  for  voyaging  in  that  sea.  Half  the  world, 
he  thought,  must  be  writing  books. 

Monsieur  Bril  bored  to  the  last  page  of  the  poems.  Then 
he  took  off  his  spectacles  and  wiped  them  with  his  handker 
chief. 

"My  old  friend,  Papineau,  is  well?"  he  asked. 

"In  the  best  of  health,"  said  David. 

"How  many  sheep  have  you,  Monsieur  Mignot?" 

"Three  hundred  and  nine,  when  I  counted  them  yesterday. 
The  flock  has  had  ill  fortune.  To  that  number  it  has  de 
creased  from  eight  hundred  and  fifty." 

"You  have  a  wife  and  a  home,  and  lived  in  comfort.  The 
sheep  brought  you  plenty.  You  went  into  the  fields  with 
them  and  lived  in  the  keen  air  and  ate  the  sweet  bread  of 
contentment.  You  had  but  to  be  vigilant  and  recline  there 
upon  nature's  breast,  listening  to  the  whistle  of  the  black 
birds  in  the  grove.  Am  I  right  thus  far  ?" 

"It  was  so,"  said  David. 

"I  have  read  all  your  verses,"  continued  Monsieur  Bril, 
his  eyes  wandering  about  his  sea  of  books  as  if  he  conned  the 
horizon  for  a  sail.  "Look  yonder,  through  that  window, 
Monsieur  Mignot;  tell  me  what  you  see  in  that  tree." 

"I  see  a  crow,"  said  David,  looking. 

"There  is  a  bird,"  said  Monsieur  Bril,  "that  shall  assist 
me  where  I  am  disposed  to  shirk  a  duty.  You  know  that  bird, 
Monsieur  Mignot;  he  is  the  philosopher  of  the  air.  He  is 
happy  through  submission  to  his  lot.  None  so  merry  or  full- 


Roads  of  Destiny  27 

crawed  as  he  with  his  whimsical  eye  and  rollicking  step.  The 
fields  yield  him  what  he  desires.  He  never  grieves  that  his 
plumage  is  not  gay.  like  the  oriole's.  And  you  have  heard, 
Monsieur  Mignot,  the  notes  that  nature  has  given  him?  Is 
the  nightingale  any  happier,  do  you  think?" 

David  rose  to  his  feet.  The  crow  cawed  harshly  from  his 
tree. 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur  Bril,"  he  said,  slowly.  "There 
was  not,  then,  one  nightingale  note  among  all  those  croaks?" 

"I  could  not  have  missed  it,"  said  Monsieur  Bril,  with  a 
sigh.  "I  read  every  word.  Live  your  poetry,  man;  do  not 
trv  to  write  it  any  more." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  David,  again.  "And  now  I  will  be 
going  back  to  my  sheep." 

"If  you  would  dine  with  me,"  said  the  man  of  books,  "and 
overlook  the  smart  of  it,  I  will  give  you  reasons  at  length." 

"No,"  said  the  poet,  "I  must  be  back  in  the  fields  cawing 
at  my  sheep." 

Back  along  the  road  to  Vernoy  he  trudged  with  his  poems 
under  his  arm.  When  he  reached  his  village  he  turned  into 
the  shop  of  one  Zeigler,  a  Jew  out  of  Armenia,  who  sold 
anything  that  came  to  his  hand. 

"Friend,"  said  David,  "wolves  from  the  forest  harass  my 
sheep  on  the  hills.  I  must  purchase  firearms  to  protect  them. 
What  have  you?" 

"A  bad  day,  this,  for  me,  friend  Mignot,"  said  Zeigler, 
spreading  his  hands,  "for  I  perceive  that  I  must  sell  you  a 
weapon  that  will  not  fetch  a  tenth  of  its  value.  Only  last 
week  I  bought  from  a  peddler  a  waggon  full  of  goods  that 
he  procured  at  a  sale  by  a  commissionaire  of  the  crown. 
The  sale  was  of  the  chateau  and  belongings  of  a  great  lord 
—  I  know  not  his  title  —  who  has  been  banished  for  con 
spiracy  against  the  king.  There  are  some  choice  firearms  in 
the  lot.  This  pistol  —  oh,  a  weapon  fit  for  a  prince !  —  it 


28  Roads  of  Destiny 

shall  be  only  forty  francs  to  you,  friend  Mignot  —  if  I  lost 
ten  by  the  sale.  But  perhaps  an  arquebuse  — " 

"This  will  do/'  said  David,  throwing  the  money  on  the 
tounter.  "Is  it  charged?" 

"I  will  charge  it,"  said  Zeigler.  "And,  for  ten  francs 
more,  add  a  store  of  powder  and  ball." 

David  laid  his  pistol  under  his  coat  and  walked  to  his  cot 
tage.  Yvonne  was  not  there.  Of  late  she  had  taken  to  gad 
ding  much  among  the  neighbours.  But  a  fire  was  glowing 
in  the  kitchen  stove.  David  opened  the  door  of  it  and  thrust 
his  poems  in  upon  the  coals.  As  they  blazed  up  they  made 
a  singing,  harsh  sound  in  the  flue. 

"The  song  of  the  crow !"  said  the  poet. 

He  went  up  to  his  attic  room  and  closed  the  door.  So 
quiet  was  the  village  that  a  score  of  people  heard  the  roar 
of  the  great  pistol.  They  flocked  thither,  and  up  the  stairs 
'where  the  smoke,  issuing,  drew  their  notice. 

The  men  laid  the  body  of  the  poet  upon  his  bed,  awk 
wardly  arranging  it  to  conceal  the  torn  plumage  of  the  poor 
black  crow.  The  women  chattered  in  a  luxury  of  zealous 
pity.  Some  of  them  ran  to  tell  Yvonne. 

M.  Papineau,  whose  nose  had  brought  him  there  among  the 
first,  picked  up  the  weapon  and  ran  his  eye  over  its  silver 
mountings  with  a  mingled  air  of  connoisseurship  and  grief. 

"The  arms,"  he  explained,  aside,  to  the  cure,  "and  crest  of 
Monseigneur,  the  Marquis  de  Beaupertuys." 


II 

THE  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  ACCOLADE 

NOT  the  least  important  of  the  force  of  the  Weymouth 
Bank  was  Uncle  Bushrod.  Sixty  years  had  Uncle  Bushrod 
given  of  faithful  service  to  the  house  of  Weymouth  as  chattel, 
servitor,,  and  friend.  Of  the  colour  of  the  mahogany  bank 
furniture  was  Uncle  Bushrod  —  thus  dark  was  he  externally ; 
white  as  the  uninked  pages  of  the  bank  ledgers  was  his 
soul.  Eminently  pleasing  to  Uncle  Bushrod  would  the  com 
parison  have  been;  for  to  him  the  only  institution  in  existence 
worth  considering  was  the  Weymouth  Bank,  of  which  he  was 
something  between  porter  and  generalissimo-in-charge. 

Weymouth  lay,  dreamy  and  unbrageous,  among  the  low 
foothills  along  the  brow  of  a  Southern  valley.  Three  banks 
there  were  in  Weymouthville.  Two  were  hopeless,  misguided 
enterprises,  lacking  the  presence  and  prestige  of  a  Weymouth 
to  give  them  glory.  The  third  was  The  Bank,  managed  by 
the  Weymouths  —  and  Uncle  Bushrod.  In  the  old  Wey 
mouth  homestead  —  the  red  brick,  white-porticoed  mansion, 
the  first  to  your  right  as  you  crossed  Elder  Creek,  coming  into 
town  —  lived  Mr.  Robert  Weymouth  (the  president  of  the 
bank),  his  widowed  daughter,  Mrs.  Vesey  —  called  "Miss 
Letty"  by  every  one  —  and  her  two  children,  Nan  and  Guy. 
There,  also  in  a  cottage  on  the  grounds,  resided  Uncle  Bush- 
rod  and  Aunt  Malindy,  his  wife.  Mr.  William  Weymouth 
(the  cashier  of  the  bank)  lived  in  a  modern,  fine  house  on  the 
principal  avenue. 

Mr.  Robert  was  a  large,  stout  man,  sixty-two  years  of  age, 

29 


30  Roads  of  Destiny 

with  a  smooth,  plump  face,  long  iron-gray  hair  and  fiery  blue 
eyes.  He  was  high-tempered,  kind,  and  generous,  with  a 
youthful  smile  and  a  formidable,  stern  voice  that  did  not  al 
ways  mean  what  it  sounded  like.  Mr.  William  was  a  milder 
man,  correct  in  deportment  and  absorbed  in  business.  The 
Weymouths  formed  The  Family  of  Weymouthville,  and  were 
looked  up  to,  as  was  their  right  of  heritage. 

Uncle  Bushrod  was  the  bank's  trusted  porter,  messenger, 
vassal,  and  guardian.  He  carried  a  key  to  the  vault,  just  as 
Mr.  Robert  and  Mr.  William  did.  Sometimes  there  was 
ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  sacked  silver  stacked 
on  the  vault  floor.  It  was  safe  with  Uncle  Bushrod.  He 
was  a  Weymouth  in  heart,  honesty,  and  pride. 

Of  late  Uncle  Bushrod  had  not  been  without  worry.  It 
was  on  account  of  Marse  Robert.  For  nearly  a  year  Mr. 
Robert  had  been  known  to  indulge  in  too  much  drink.  Not 
enough,  understand,  to  become  tipsy,  but  the  habit  was  get 
ting  a  hold  upon  him,  and  every  one  was  beginning  to  notice 
it.  Half  a  dozen  times  a  day  he  would  leave  the  bank  and 
step  around  to  the  Merchants  and  Planters'  Hotel  to  take  a 
drink.  Mr.  Robert's  usual  keen  judgment  and  business  ca 
pacity  became  a  little  impaired.  Mr.  William,  a  Weymouth, 
but  not  so  rich  in  experience,  tried  to  dam  the  inevitable  back- 
flow  of  the  tide,  but  with  incomplete  success.  The  deposits 
in  the  Weymouth  Bank  dropped  from  six  figures  to  five. 
Past-due  paper  began  to  accumulate,  owing  to  injudicious 
loans.  No  one  cared  to  address  Mr.  Robert  on  the  subject  of 
temperance.  Many  of  his  friends  said  that  the  cause  of  it 
had  been  the  death  of  his  wife  some  two  years  before.  Others 
hesitated  on  account  of  Mr.  Robert's  quick  temper,  which  was 
extremely  apt  to  resent  personal  interference  of  such  s  na 
ture.  Miss  Letty  and  the  children  noticed  the  change  and 
grieved  about  it.  Uncle  Bushrod  also  worried,  but  he  was 
one  of  those  who  would  not  have  dared  to  remonstrate,  al- 


The  Guardian  of  the  Accolade  31 

though  lie  and  Marse  Robert  had  been  raised  almost  as 
companions.  But  there  was  a  heavier  shock  coming  to  Uncle 
Bushrod  than  that  caused  by  the  bank  president's  toddies  and 
juleps. 

Mr.  Robert  had  a  passion  for  fishing,  which  he  usually  in 
dulged  whenever  the  season  and  business  permitted.  One 
day,  when  reports  had  been  coming  in  relating  to  the  bass 
and  perch,  he  announced  his  intention  of  making  a  two  or 
three  days'  visit  to  the  lakes.  He  was  going  down,  he  said, 
to  Reedy  Lake  with  Judge  Archinard,  an  old  friend. 

Now,  Uncle  Bushrod  was  treasurer  of  the  Sons  and  Daugh 
ters  of  the  Burning  Bush.  Every  association  he  belonged  to 
made  him  treasurer  without  hesitation.  He  stood  AAl  in 
coloured  circles.  He  was  understood  among  them  to  be  Mr. 
Bushrod  Weymouth,  of  the  Weymouth  Bank. 

The  night  following  the  day  on  which  Mr.  Robert  men 
tioned  his  intended  fishing-trip  the  old  man  woke  up  and  rose 
from  his  bed  at  twelve  o'clock,  declaring  he  must  go  down 
to  the  bank  and  fetch  the  pass-book  of  the  Sons  and  Daugh 
ters,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  bring  home.  The  bookkeepei 
had  balanced  it  for  him  that  day,  put  the  cancelled  checks  in 
it,  and  snapped  two  elastic  bands  around  it.  He  put  but  one 
band  around  other  pass-books. 

Aunt  Malindy  objected  to  the  mission  at  so  late  an  hour, 
denouncing  it  as  foolish  and  unnecessary,  but  Uncle  Bushrod 
was  not  to  be  deflected  from  duty. 

"I  done  told  Sister  Adaline  Hoskins,"  he  said,  "to  come 
by  here  for  dat  book  to-morrer  mawnin'  at  sebin  o'clock,  for 
to  kyar'  it  to  de  meetin'  of  de  bo'd  of  'rangements,  and  dat 
book  gwine  to  be  here  when  she  come." 

So,  Uncle  Bushrod  put  on  his  old  brown  suit,  got  his  thick 
hickory  stick,  and  meandered  through  the  almost  deserted 
streets  of  Weymouthville.  He  entered  the  bank,  unlocking 
the  side  door,  and  found  the  pass-book  where  he  had  left  it, 


32  Roads  of  Destiny 

in  the  little  back  room  used  for  private  consultations,  where 
he  always  hung  his  coat.  Looking  about  casually,  he  saw  that 
everything  was  as  he  had  left  it,  and  was  about  to  start  for 
home  when  he  was  brought  to  a  standstill  by  the  sudden  rattle 
of  a  key  in  the  front  door.  Some  one  came  quickly  in,  closed 
the  door  softly,  and  entered  the  counting-room  through  the 
door  in  the  iron  railing. 

That  division  of  the  bank's  space  was  connected  with  the 
back  room  by  a  narrow  passageway,  now  in  deep  darkness. 

Uncle  Bushrod,  firmly  gripping  his  hickory  stick,  tiptoed 
gently  up  this  passage  until  he  could  see  the  midnight  in 
truder  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  Weymouth  Bank.  One 
dim  gas-jet  burned  there,  but  even  in  its  nebulous  light  he 
perceived  at  once  that  the  prowler  was  the  bank's  president. 

Wondering,  fearful,  undecided  what  to  do,  the  old  coloured 
man  stood  motionless  in  the  gloomy  strip  of  hallway,  and 
waited  developments. 

The  vault,  with  its  big  iron  door,  was  opposite  him.  Inside 
that  was  the  safe,  holding  the  papers  of  value,  the  gold  and 
currency  of  the  bank.  On  the  floor  of  the  vault  was,  perhaps, 
eighteen  thousand  dollars  in  silver. 

The  president  took  his  key  from  his  pocket,  opened  the 
vault  and  went  inside,  nearly  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
Uncle  Bushrod  saw,  through  the  narrow  aperture,  the  flicker 
of  a  candle.  In  a  minute  or  two  —  it  seemed  an  hour  to  the 
watcher  —  Mr.  Robert  came  out,  bringing  with  him  a  large 
hand-satchel,  handling  it  in  a  careful  but  hurried  manner,  as 
it  fearful  that  he  might  be  observed.  With  one  hand  he  closed 
and  locked  the  vault  door. 

With  a  reluctant  theory  forming  itself  beneath  his  wool, 
Uncle  Bushrod  waited  and  watched,  shaking  in  his  concealing 
shadow. 

Mr.  Robert  set  the  satchel  softly  upon  a  desk,  and  turned 
his  coat  collar  up  about  his  neck  and  ears.  He  was  dressed 


The  Guardian  of  the  Accolade  83 

in  a  rough  suit  of  gray,  as  if  for  travelling.  He  glanced  with 
frowning  intentness  at  the  big  office  clock  above  the  burning 
gas-jet,  and  then  looked  lingeringly  about  the  bank  — lin- 
geringly  and  fondly,  Uncle  Bushrod  thought,  as  one  who 
bids  farewell  to  dear  and  familiar  scenes. 

Now  ne  caught  up  his  burden  again  and  moved  promptly 
and  softly  out  of  the  bank  by  the  way  he  had  come  locking 
the  front  door  behind  him. 

For  a  minute  or  longer  Uncle  Bushrod  was  as  stone  in  his 
tracks.  Had  that  midnight  rifler  of  safes  and  vaults  been 
any  other  on  earth  than  the  man  he  was,  the  old  retainer 
would  have  rushed  upon  him  and  struck  to  save  the  Wey- 
mouth  property.  But  now  the  watcher's  soul  was  tortured  by 
the  poignant  dread  of  something  worse  than  mere  robbery. 
He  was  seized  by  an  accusing  terror  that  said  the  Weymouth 
name  and  the  Weymouth  honour  were  about  to  be  lost.  Marse 
Robert  robbing  the  bank!  What  else  could  it  mean?  The 
hour  of  the  night,  the  stealthy  visit  to  the  vault,  the  satchel 
brought  forth  full  and  with  expedition  and  silence,  the  prow 
ler's  rough  dress,  his  solicitous  reading  of  the  clock,  and 
noiseless  departure  —  what  else  could  it  mean  ? 

And  then  to  the  turmoil  of  Uncle  Bushrod's  thoughts  came 
the  corroborating  recollection  of  preceding  events  —  Mr. 
Robert's  increasing  intemperance  and  consequent  many  moods 
of  royal  high  spirits  and  stern  tempers;  the  casual  talk  he 
had  heard  in  the  bank  of  the  decrease  in  business  and  dif 
ficulty  in  collecting  loans.  What  else  could  it  all  mean  but 
that  Mr.  Robert  Weymouth  was  an  absconder  —  was  about  to 
fly  with  the  bank's  remaining  funds,  leaving  Mr.  William, 
Miss  Letty,  little  Nan,  Guy,  and  Uncle  Bushrod  to  bear  the 
disgrace  ? 

During  one  minute  Uncle  Bushrod  considered  these  things, 
and  then  he  awoke  to  sudden  determination  and  action. 

"Lawd !     Lawd !"  he  moaned  aloud,  as  he  hobbled  hastily 


34  Roads  of  Destiny 

toward  the  side  door.  "Sech  a  come-off  after  all  dese  here 
years  of  big  doin's  and  fine  doin's.  Scan'lous  sights  upon 
de  yearth  when  de  Weymouth  fambly  done  turn  out  robbers 
and  'bezzlers !  Time  for  Uncle  Bushrod  to  clean  out  some 
body's  chicken-coop  and  eben  matters  up.  Oh,  Lawd !  Marse 
Robert,  you  ain't  gwine  do  dat.  'N  Miss  Letty  an'  dem 
chillum  so  proud  and  talkin'  'Weymouth,  Weymouth/  all  de 
time!  I'm  gwine  to  stop  you  ef  I  can.  'Spec  you  shoot 
Mr.  Nigger's  head  off  ef  he  fool  wid  you,  but  I'm  gwine  stop 
you  ef  I  can." 

Uncle  Bushrod,  aided  by  his  hickory  stick,  impeded  by 
his  rheumatism,  hurried  down  the  street  toward  the  railroad 
station,  where  the  two  lines  touching  Weymouthville  met. 
As  he  had  expected  and  feared,  he  saw  there  Mr.  Robert, 
standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  building,  waiting  for  the  train. 
He  held  the  satchel  in  his  hand. 

When  Uncle  Bushrod  came  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
bank  president,  standing  like  a  huge,  gray  ghost  by  the 
station  wall,  sudden  perturbation  seized  him.  The  rashness 
and  audacity  of  the  thing  he  had  come  to  do  struck  him  fully. 
He  would  have  been  happy  could  he  have  turned  and  fled 
from  the  possibilities  of  the  famous  Weymouth  wrath.  But 
again  he  saw,  in  his  fancy,  the  white,  reproachful  face  of 
Miss  Letty,  and  the  distressed  looks  of  Nan  and  Guy,  should 
he  fail  in  his  duty  and  they  question  him  as  to  his  stewardship. 

Braced  by  the  thought,  he  approached  in  a  straight  line, 
clearing  his  throat  and  pounding  with  his  stick  so  that  he 
might  be  early  recognized.  Thus  he  might  avoid  the  likely 
danger  of  too  suddenly  surprising  the  sometimes  hasty  Mr. 
Robert. 

"Is  that  you,  Bushrod?"  called  the  clamant,  clear  voice  of 
the  gray  ghost. 

"Yes,  suh,  Marse  Robert." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  out  at  this  time  of  night?" 


The  Guardian  of  the  Accolade  35 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Uncle  Bushrod  told  Marse 
Robert  a  falsehood.  He  could  not  repress  it.  He  would 
have  to  circumlocute  a  little.  His  nerve  was  not  equal  to  a 
direct  attack. 

"I  done  been  down,  suh.  to  see  ol'  Aunt  M'ria  Patterson. 
She  taken  sick  in  de  night,  and  I  kyar'ed  her  a  bottle  of 
M'lindy's  medercine.  Yes,  suh." 

"Humph!"  said  Robert.  "You  better  get  home  out  of 
the  night  air.  It's  damp.  You'll  hardly  be  worth  killing 
to-morrow  on  account  of  your  rheumatism.  Think  it'l1  be  a 
clear  day,  Bushrod?" 

"I  'low  it  will,  suh.     De  sun  sot  red  las'  night." 

Mr.  Robert  lit  a  cigar  in  the  shadow,  and  the  smoke  looked 
like  his  gray  ghost  expanding  and  escaping  into  the  night 
air.  Somehow,  Uncle  Bushrod  could  barely  force  his  re 
luctant  tongue  to  the  dreadful  subject.  He  stood,  awkward, 
shambling,  with  his  feet  upon  the  gravel  and  fumbling  with 
his  stick.  But  then,  afar  off  —  three  miles  away,  at  the 
Jimtown  switch  —  he  heard  the  faint  whistle  of  the  coming 
train,  the  one  that  was  to  transport  the  Weymouth  name  into 
the  regions  of  dishonour  and  shame.  All  fear  left  him.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  faced  the  chief  of  the  clan  he  served, 
the  great,  royal,  kind,  lofty,  terrible  Weymouth  —  he  bearded 
him  there  at  the  brink  of  the  awful  thing  that  was  about  to 
happen. 

"Marse  Robert,"  he  began,  his  voice  quavering  a  little  with 
the  stress  of  his  feelings,  "you  'member  de  day  dey-all  rode 
de  tunnament  at  Oak  Lawn?  De  day,  suh,  dat  you  win  in 
de  ridin',  and  you  crown  Miss  Lucy  de  queen  ?" 

"Tournament?"  said  Mr.  Robert,  taking  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  "Yes,  I  remember  very  well  the  —  but  what  the 
deuce  are  you  talking  about  tournaments  here  at  midnight 
for?  Go  'long  home,  Bushrod.  I  believe  you're  sleep-walk 
ing." 


36  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Miss  Lucy  tetch  you  on  de  shoulder/'  continued  the  old 
man,  never  heeding,  "wid  a  s'ord,  and  say:  'I  mek  you  a 
knight,  Suh  Robert  —  rise  up,  pure  and  fearless  and  widout 
reproach.'  Dat  what  Miss  Lucy  say.  Dat's  been  a  long 
time  ago,  but  me  nor  you  ain't  forgot  it.  And  den  dar's 
another  time  we  ain't  forgot  —  de  time  when  Miss  Lucy  lay 
on  her  las'  bed.  She  sent  for  Uncle  Bushrod,  and  she  say: 
'Uncle  Bushrod,  when  I  die,  I  want  you  to  take  good  care 
of  Mr.  Robert.  Seem  like' —  so  Miss  Lucy  say  — '  he  listen 
to  you  mo'  dan  to  anybody  else.  He  apt  to  be  mighty 
fractious  sometimes,  and  maybe  he  cuss  you  when  you  try  to 
'suade  him  but  he  need  somebody  what  understand  him  to 
be  'round  wid  him.  He  am  like  a  little  child  sometimes' —  so 
Miss  Lucy  say,  wid  her  eyes  shinin'  in  her  po',  thin  face  — 
'but  he  always  been' —  dem  was  her  words  — 'my  knight, 
pure  and  fearless  and  widout  reproach.'  " 

Mr.  Robert  began  to  mask,  as  was  his  habit,  a  tendency 
to  soft-heartedness  with  a  spurious  anger. 

"You  —  you  old  windbag!"  he  growled  through  a  cloud 
of  swirling  cigar  smoke.  "I  believe  you  are  crazy.  I  told 
you  to  go  home,  Bushrod.  Miss  Lucy  said  that,  did  she? 
Well,  we  haven't  kept  the  scutcheon  very  clear.  Two  years 
ago  last  week,  wasn't  it,  Bushrod,  when  she  died?  Confound 
it!  Are  you  going  to  stand  there  all  night  gabbing  like  a 
coffee-coloured  gander  ?" 

The  train  whistled  again.  Now  it  was  at  the  water  tank, 
a  mile  away. 

"Marse  Robert,"  said  Uncle  Bushrod,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  satchel  that  the  banker  held.  "For  Gawd's  sake,  don' 
take  dis  wid  you.  I  knows  what's  in  it.  I  knows  where  you 
got  it  in  de  bank.  Don'  kyar'  it  wid  you.  Dey's  big  trouble 
in  dat  valise  for  Miss  Lucy  and  Miss  Lucy's  child's  chillun. 
Kit's  bound  to  destroy  de  name  of  Weymouth  and  bow  down 
dem  dat  own  it  wid  shame  and  triberlation.  Marse  Robert, 


The  Guardian  of  the  Accolade  37 

you  can  kill  dis  ole  nigger  ef  you  will,  but  don't  take  away 
dis  'er'  valise.  If  I  ever  crosses  over  de  Jordan,  what  I 
gwine  to  say  to  Miss  Lucy  when  she  ax  me:  'Uncle  Bushrod, 
wharf o'  didn'  you  take  good  care  of  Mr.  Robert  ?'  " 

Mr.  Robert  Weymouth  threw  away  his  cigar  and  shook 
free  one  arm  with  that  peculiar  gesture  that  always  preceded 
his  outbursts  of  irascibility.  Uncle  Bushrod  bowed  his  head 
to  the  expected  storm,  but  he  did  not  flinch.  If  the  house 
of  Weymouth  was  to  fall,  he  would  fall  with  it.  The  banker 
spoke,  and  Uncle  Bushrod  blinked  with  surprise.  The  storm 
was  there,  but  it  was  suppressed  to  the  quietness  of  a  summer 
breeze. 

"Bushrod,"  said  Mr.  Robert,  in  a  lower  voice  than  he 
usually  employed,  "you  have  overstepped  all  bounds.  You 
have  presumed  upon  the  leniency  with  which  you  have  been 
treated  to  meddle  unpardonably.  So  you  know  what  is  in 
this  satchel!  Your  long  and  faithful  service  is  some  excuse, 
but  —  go  home,  Bushrod  —  not  another  word !" 

But  Bushrod  grasped  the  satchel  with  a  firmer  hand.  The 
headlight  of  the  train  was  now  lightening  the  shadows  about 
the  station.  The  roar  was  increasing,  and  folks  were  stirring 
about  at  the  track  side. 

"Marse  Robert,  gimme  dis  'er'  valise.  I  got  a  right,  suh, 
to  talk  to  you  dis  'er'  way.  I  slaved  for  you  and  'tended 
to  you  from  a  child  up.  I  went  th'ough  de  war  as  yo'  body- 
servant  teD  we  whipped  de  Yankees  and  sent  'em  back  to  de 
No'th.  I  was  at  yo'  weddin',  and  I  was  n'  fur  away  when 
yo'  Miss  Letty  was  bawn.  And  Miss  Letty's  chillun,  dey 
watches  to-day  for  Uncle  Bushrod  when  he  come  home  ever' 
evenin'.  I  been  a  Weymouth,  all  'cept  in  colour  and  entitle 
ments.  Both  of  us  is  old,  Marse  Robert.  'Tain't  goin'  to  be 
long  tell  we  gwine  to  see  Miss  Lucy  and  has  to  give  an 
account  of  our  doin's.  De  ole  nigger  man  won't  be  'spected 
to  say  much  mo'  dan  he  done  all  he  could  by  de  fambly  dat 


38  Roads  of  Destiny 

owned  him.  But  de  Weymouths,  dey  must  say  dey  been  livin* 
pure  and  fearless  and  widout  reproach.  Gimme  dis  valise, 
Marse  Robert  —  I'm  gw'ne  to  hab  it.  I'm  gwine  to  take  it 
back  to  the  bank  and  lock  it  up  in  de  vault.  I'm  gwine  to  do 
Miss  Lucy's  biddin'.  Turn  'er  loose,  Marse  Robert/' 

The  train  was  standing  at  the  station.  Some  men  were 
pushing  trucks  along  the  side.  Two  or  three  sleepy  passengers 
got  off  and  wandered  away  into  the  night.  The  conductor 
stepped  to  the  gravel,  swung  his  lantern  and  called:  "Hello, 
Frank!"  at  some  one  invisible.  The  bell  clanged,  the  brakes 
hissed,  the  conductor  drawled:  "All  aboard!" 

Mr.  Bobert  released  his  hold  on  the  satchel.  Uncle  Bush- 
rod  hugged  it  to  his  breast  with  both  arms,  as  a  lover  clasps 
his  first  beloved. 

"Take  it  back  with  you,  Bushrod,"  said  Mr.  Robert,  thrust 
ing  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  "And  let  the  subject  drop 
—  now  mind!  You've  said  quite  enough.  I'm  going  to  take 
this  train.  Tell  Mr.  William  I  will  be  back  on  Saturday. 
Good  night." 

The  banker  climbed  the  steps  of  the  moving  train  and 
disappeared  in  a  coach.  Uncle  Bushrod  stood  motionless,  still 
embracing  the  precious  satchel.  His  eyes  were  closed  and 
his  lips  were  moving  in  thanks  to  the  Master  above  for  the 
salvation  of  the  Weymouth  honour.  He  knew  Mr.  Robert 
would  return  when  he  said  he  would.  The  Weymouths  never 
lied.  Nor  now,  thank  the  Lord!  could  it  be  said  that  they 
embezzled  the  money  in  banks. 

Then  awake  to  the  necessity  for  further  guardianship  of 
Weymouth  trust  funds,  the  old  man  started  for  the  bank  with 
the  redeemed  satchel. 

Three  hours  from  Weymouthville,  in  the  gray  dawn,  Mr. 
Robert  alighted  from  the  train  at  a  lonely  flag-station.  Dimly 
he  could  see  the  figure  of  a  man  waiting  on  the  platform, 


The  Guardian  of  the  Accolade  3$ 

and  the  shape  of  a  spring-waggon,  team  and  driver.  Half  a 
dozen  lengthy  bamboo  fishing-poles  projected  from  the  wag 
gon's  rear. 

"You're  here,  Bob,"  said  Judge  Archinard,  Mr.  Robert's 
old  friend  and  schoolmate.  "It's  going  to  be  a  royal  day 
for  fishing.  I  thought  you  said  —  why,  didn't  you  bring  along 
the  stuff?" 

The  president  of  the  Weymouth  Bank  took  off  his  hat  and 
rumpled  his  gray  locks. 

"Well,  Ben,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there's  an  infernally 
presumptuous  old  nigger  belonging  in  my  family  that  broke 
up  the  arrangement.  He  came  down  to  the  depot  and  vetoed 
the  whole  proceeding.  He  means  all  right,  and  —  well,  I 
reckon  he  is  right.  Somehow,  he  had  found  out  what  I  had 
along  —  though  I  hid  it  in  the  bank  vault  and  sneaked  it  out 
at  midnight.  I  reckon  he  has  noticed  that  I've  been  indulging 
a  little  more  than  a  gentleman  should,  and  he  laid  for  me 
with  some  reaching  arguments. 

"I'm  going  to  quit  drinking,"  Mr.  Robert  concluded.  "I've 
some  to  the  conclusion  that  a  man  can't  keep  it  up  and  be 
quite  what  he'd  like  to  be — 'pure  and  fearless  and  without 
"reproach' — that's  the  way  old  Bushrod  quoted  it." 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  admit,"  said  the  judge,  thoughtfully, 
as  they  climbed  into  the  waggon,  "that  the  old  darkey's  argu 
ment  can't  conscientiously  be  overruled." 

"Still,"  said  Mr.  Robert,  with  a  ghost  of  a  sigh,  "there 
Was  two  quarts  of  the  finest  old  silk-velvet  Bourbon  in  that 
gatchel  you  ever  wet  your  lips  with." 


Ill 

THE  DISCOUNTERS  OF  MONEY 

THE  spectacle  of  the  money-caliphs  of  the  present  day 
going  about  Bagdad-on-the-Subway  trying  to  relieve  the  wants 
of  the  people  is  enough  to  make  the  great  Al  Raschid  turn 
Haroun  in  his  grave.  If  not  so,  then  the  assertion  should 
do  so,  the  real  caliph  having  been  a  wit  and  a  scholar  and 
therefore  a  hater  of  puns. 

How  properly  to  alleviate  the  troubles  of  the  poor  is  one 
of  the  greatest  troubles  of  the  rich.  But  one  thing  agreed 
upon  by  all  professional  philanthropists  is  that  you  must  never 
hand  over  any  cash  to  your  subject.  The  poor  are  notori 
ously  temperamental;  and  when  they  get  money  they  exhibit 
a  strong  tendency  to  spend  it  for  stuffed  olives  and  enlarged 
crayon  portraits  instead  of  giving  it  to  the  instalment  man. 

And  still,  old  Haroun  had  some  advantages  as  an  eleemosy- 
narian.  He  took  around  with  him  on  his  rambles  his  vizier, 
Giafar  (a  vizier  is  a  composite  of  a  chauffeur,  a  secretary  of 
state,  and  a  night-and-day  bank),  and  old  Uncle  Mesrour,  his 
executioner,  who  toted  a  snickersnee.  With  this  entourage  a 
caliphing  tour  could  hardly  fail  to  be  successful.  Have  you 
noticed  lately  any  newspaper  articles  headed,  "What  Shall 
We  do  With  Our  Ex-Presidents?"  Well,  now,  suppose  that 
Mr.  Carnegie  should  engage  him  and  Joe  Gans  to  go  about 
assisting  in  the  distribution  of  free  libraries  ?  Do  you  suppose 
any  town  would  have  the  hardihood  to  refuse  one?  That 
caliphalous  combination  would  cause  two  libraries  to  grow 
where  there  had  been  only  one  set  of  E.  P.  Roe's  works  be 
fore. 

40 


The  Discounters  of  Money  41 

But,  as  I  said,  the  money-caliphs  are  handicapped.  They 
have  the  idea  that  earth  has  no  sorrow  that  dough  cannot 
heal;  and  they  rely  upon  it  solely.  Al  Raschid  administered 
justice,  rewarded  the  deserving,  and  punished  whomsoever  he 
disliked  on  the  spot.  He  was  the  originator  of  the  short- 
story  contest.  Whenever  he  succoured  any  chance  pick-up  in 
the  bazaars  he  always  made  the  succouree  tell  the  sad  story 
of  his  life.  If  the  narrative  lacked  construction,  style,  and 
esprit  he  commanded  his  vizier  to  dole  him  out  a  couple  of 
thousand  ten-dollar  notes  of  the  First  National  Bank  of 
the  Bosphorus,  or  else  gave  him  a  soft  job  as  Keeper  of  the 
Bird  Seed  for  the  Bulbuls  in  the  Imperial  Gardens.  If  the 
story  was  a  cracker- j  ack,  he  had  Mesrour,  the  executioner, 
whack  off  his  head.  The  report  that  Haroun  Al  Raschid  is 
yet  alive  and  is  editing  the  magazine  that  your  grandmother 
used  to  subscribe  for  lacks  confirmation. 

And  now  follows  the  Story  of  the  Millionaire,  the  Ineffica 
cious  Increment,  and  the  Babes  Drawn  from  the  Wood. 

Young  Howard  Pilkins,  the  millionaire,  got  his  money 
ornithologically.  He  was  a  shrewd  judge  of  storks,  and  got 
in  on  the  ground  floor  at  the  residence  of  his  immediate 
ancestors,  the  Pilkins  Brewing  Company.  For  his  mother  was 
a  partner  in  the  business.  Finally  old  man  Pilkins  died  from 
a  torpid  liver,  and  then  Mrs.  Pilkins  died  from  worry  on 
account  of  torpid  delivery-waggons  —  and  there  you  have 
young  Howard  Pilkins  with  4,000,000;  and  a  good  fellow  at 
that.  He  was  an  agreeable,  modestly  arrogant  young  man, 
who  implicitly  believed  that  money  could  buy  anything  that 
the  world  had  to  offer.  And  Bagdad-on-the-Subway  for  a 
long  time  did  everything  possible  to  encourage  his  belief. 

But  the  Rat-trap  caught  him  at  last;  he  heard  the  spring 
snap,  and  found  his  heart  in  a  wire  cage  regarding  a  piece 
of  cheese  whose  other  name  was  Alice  von  der  Ruysling. 

The  Von  der  Ruyslings  still  live  in  that  little  square  about 


!42  Roads  of  Destiny 

which  so  much  has  been  said,  and  in  which  so  little  has  been 
done.  To-day  you  hear  of  Mr.  Tilden's  underground  passage, 
and  you  hear  Mr.  Gould's  elevated  passage,  and  that  about 
ends  the  noise  in  the  world  made  by  Gramercy  Square.  But 
once  it  was  different.  The  Von  der  Ruyslings  live  there  yet, 
and  they  received  the  first  key  ever  made  to  Gramercy  Park. 

You  shall  have  no  description  of  Alice  v.  d.  R.  Just  call 
up  in  your  mind  the  picture  of  your  own  Maggie  or  Vera 
or  Beatrice,  strighten  her  nose,  soften  her  voice,  tone  her 
down  and  then  tone  her  up,  make  her  beautiful  and  unattain 
able  —  and  you  have  a  faint  dry-point  etching  of  Alice.  The 
family  owned  a  crumbly  brick  house  and  a  coachman  named 
Joseph  in  a  coat  of  many  colours,  and  a  horse  so  old  that  he 
claimed  to  belong  to  the  order  of  the  Perissodactyla,  and  had 
toes  instead  of  hoofs.  In  the  year  1898  the  family  had  to 
buy  a  new  set  of  harness  for  the  Perissodactyl.  Before 
using  it  they  made  Joseph  smear  it  over  with  a  mixture  of 
ashes  and  soot.  It  was  the  Von  der  Ruysling  family  that 
bought  the  territory  between  the  Bowery  and  East  River  and 
Rivington  Street  and  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  in  the  year 
1649.  from  an  Indian  chief  for  a  quart  of  passementerie  and 
a  pair  of  Turkey-red  portieres  designed  for  a  Harlem  flat. 
I  have  always  admired  that  Indian's  perspicacity  and  good 
taste.  All  this  is  merely  to  convince  you  that  the  Von  der 
Ruyslings  were  exactly  the  kind  of  poor  aristocrats  that  turn 
down  their  noses  at  people  who  have  money.  Oh,  well,  I 
don't  mean  that;  I  mean  people  who  have  just  money. 

One  evening  Pilkins  went  down  to  the  red  brick  house  in 
Gramercy  Square,  and  made  what  he  thought  was  a  proposal 
to  Alice  v.  d.  R.  Alice,  with  her  nose  turned  down,  and 
thinking  of  his  money,  considered  it  a  proposition,  and  refused 
it  and  him.  Pilkins,  summoning  all  his  resources  as  any  good 
general  would  have  done,  made  an  indiscreet  reference  to  the 
advantages  that  his  money  would  provide.  That  settled  it. 


The  Discounters  of  Money  43 

The  lady  turned  so  cold  that  Walter  Wellman  himself  would 
have  waited  until  spring  to  make  a  dash  for  her  in  a  dog-sled. 

But  Pilkins  was  something  of  a  sport  himself.  You  can't 
fool  all  the  millionaires  every  time  the  ball  drops  on  the 
Western  Union  Building. 

"If,,  at  any  time/'  he  said  to  A.  v.  d.  Rv  "you  feel  that 
you  would  like  to  reconsider  your  answer,  send  me  a  rose 
like  that." 

Pilkins  audaciously  touched  a  Jacque  rose  that  she  wore 
loosely  in  her  hair. 

"Very  well/'  said  she.  "And  when  I  do,  you  will  under 
stand  by  it  that  either  you  or  I  have  learned  something  new 
about  the  purchasing  power  of  money.  You've  been  spoiled, 
my  friend.  No,  I  don't  think  I  could  marry  you.  To-morrow 
I  will  send  you  back  the  presents  you  have  given  me." 

"Presents !"  said  Pilkins  in  surprise.  "I  never  gave  you 
a  present  in  my  life.  I  would  like  to  see  a  full-length  portrait 
of  the  man  that  you  would  take  a  present  from.  Why,  you 
never  would  let  me  send  you  flowers  or  candy  or  even  art 
calendars." 

"You've  forgotten,"  said  Alice  v.  d.  R.,  with  a  little  smile. 
"It  was  a  long  time  ago  when  our  families  were  neighbours. 
You  were  seven,  and  I  was  trundling  my  doll  on  the  sidewalk. 
You  gave  me  a  little  gray,  hairy  kitten,  with  shoe-buttony 
eyes.  Its  head  came  on"  and  it  was  full  of  candy.  You  paid 
five  cents  for  it  —  you  told  me  so.  I  haven't  the  candy  to 
return  to  you  —  I  hadn't  developed  a  conscience  at  three,  so 
I  ate  it.  But  I  have  the  kitten  yet,  and  I  will  wrap  it  up 
neatly  to-night  and  send  it  to  you  to-morrow." 

Beneath  the  lightness  of  Alice  v.  d.  R.'s  talk  the  steadfast' 
ness  of  her  rejection  showed  firm  and  plain.  So  there  was 
nothing  left  for  him  but  to  leave  the  crumbly  red  brick  house, 
and  be  off  with  his  abhorred  millions. 

On  his  way  backs  Pilkins  walked  through  Madison  Square. 


44  Roads  of  Destiny 

The  hour  hand  of  the  clock  hung  about  eight;  the  air  was 
stingingly  cool,  but  not  at  the  freezing  point.  The  dim 
little  square  seemed  like  a  great,  cold,  unroofed  room,  with 
its  four  walls  of  houses,  spangled  with  thousands  of  insufficient 
lights.  Only  a  few  loiterers  were  huddled  here  and  there 
on  the  benches. 

But  suddenly  Pilkins  came  upon  a  youth  brave  and, 
as  if  conflicting  with  summer  sultriness,  coatless,  his  white 
shirt-sleeves  conspicuous  in  the  light  from  the  globe  of  an 
electric.  Close  at  his  side  was  a  girl,  smiling,  dreamy,  happy. 
Around  her  shoulders  was,  palpably,  the  missing  coat  of  the 
cold-defying  youth.  I*;  appeared  to  be  a  modern  panorama 
of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  revised  and  brought  up  to  date, 
with  the  exception  that  the  robins  hadn't  turned  up  yet  with 
the  protecting  leaves. 

With  delight  the  money-caliphs  view  a  situation  that  they 
think  is  relievable  while  you  wait. 

Pilkins  sat  on  the  bench,  one  seat  removed  from  the  youth. 
He  glanced  cautiously  and  saw  (as  men  do  cce;  and  women  — 
oh !  never  can)  that  they  were  of  the  same  order. 

Pilkins  leaned  over  after  «,  short  time  and  spoke  to  the  youth, 
who  answered  smilingly,  and  courteously.  From  general 
topics  the  conversation  concentratea  „  the  bed-rock  of  grim 
personalities.  But  Pilkins  did  it  ac  delicately  and  heartily 
as  any  caliph  could  have  done.  And  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  the  youth  turned  to  him,  soft-voiced  and  with  his  un- 
diminished  smile. 

"I  don't  want  to  seem  unappreciative,  old  man,"  he  said, 
with  a  youth's  somewhat  too-early  spontaneity  of  address, 
"but,  you  see,  I  can't  accept  anything  from  a  stranger.  I 
know  you're  all  right,  and  I'm  tremendously  obliged,  but  I 
couldn't  think  of  borrowing  from  anybody.  You  see,  I'm 
Marcus  Clayton  —  the  Claytons  of  Roanoke  County,  Virginia, 
you  know.  The  young  lady  is  Miss  Eva  Bedford  —  I  reckon 


The  Discounters  of  Money  45 

you've  heard  of  the  Bedfords.  She's  seventeen  and  one  oi 
the  Bedfords  of  Bedford  County.  We've  eloped  from  home 
to  get  married,  and  we  wanted  to  see  New  York.  We  got  in 
this  afternoon.  Somebody  got  my  pocketbook  on  the  ferry 
boat,  and  I  had  only  three  cents  in  change  outside  of  it.  I'll 
get  some  work  somewhere  to-morrow,  and  we'll  get  married." 

"But,  I  say,  old  man,"  said  Pilkins,  in  confidential  low 
tones,  "you  can't  keep  the  lady  out  here  in  the  cold  all  night. 
Now,  as  for  hotels  — " 

"I  told  you,"  said  the  youth,  with  a  broader  smile,  "that  I 
didn't  have  but  three  cents.  Besides,  if  I  had  a  thousand, 
we'd  have  to  wait  here  until  morning.  You  can  understand 
that,  of  course.  I'm  much  obliged,  but  I  can't  take  any  of 
your  money.  Miss  Bedford  and  I  have  lived  an  outdoor  life, 
and  we  don't  mind  a  little  cold.  I'll  get  work  of  some  kind 
to-morrow.  We've  got  a  paper  bag  of  cakes  and  chocolates, 
and  we'll  get  along  all  right/' 

"Listen,"  said  the  millionaire,  impressively.  "My  name 
is  Pilkins,  and  I'm  worth  several  million  dollars.  I  happen 
to  have  in  my  pockets  about  $800  or  $900  in  cash.  Don't 
you  think  you  are  drawing  it  rather  fine  when  you  decline  to 
accept  as  much  of  it  as  will  make  you  and  the  young  lady 
comfortable  at  least  for  the  night?" 

"I  can't  say.  sir,  that  I  do  think  so,"  said  Clayton  of 
Roanoke  County.  "I've  been  raised  to  look  at  such  things 
differently.  But  I'm  mightily  obliged  to  you,  just  the  same." 

"Then  you  force  me  to  say  good  night,"  said  the  million 
aire. 

Twice  that  day  had  his  money  been  scorned  by  simple 
ones  to  whom  his  dollars  had  appeared  as  but  tin  tobacco- 
tags.  He  was  no  worshipper  of  the  actual  minted  coin  or 
stamped  paper,  but  he  had  always  believed  in  its  almost 
unlimited  power  to  purchase. 

Pilkins  walked   away   rapidly,   and  then   turned   abruptly 


46  Koads  of  Destiny 

and  returned  to  the  bench  where  the  young  couple  sat.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  began  to  speak.  The  girl  looked  at  him 
with  the  same  sprightly,  glowing  interest  that  she  had  been 
giving  to  the  lights  and  statuary  and  sky-reaching  buildings 
that  made  the  old  square  seem  so  far  away  from  Bedford 
County. 

"Mr.  —  er  —  Roanoke,"  said  Pilkins,  "I  admire  your  — 
your  indepen  —  your  idiocy  so  much  that  I'm  going  to  appeal 
to  your  chivalry.  I  believe  that's  what  you  Southerners  call 
it  when  you  keep  a  lady  sitting  outdoors  on  a  bench  on  a  cold 
night  just  to  keep  your  old,  out-of-date  pride  going.  Now, 
I've  a  friend  —  a  lady  —  whom  I  have  known  all  my  life  — ; 
who  lives  a  few  blocks  from  here  —  with  her  parents  and  sis 
ters  and  aunts,  and  all  that  kind  of  endorsement,  of  course. 
I  am  sure  this  lady  would  be  happy  and  pleased  to  put  up  — : 
that  is,  to  have  Miss  —  er  —  Bedford  give  her  the  pleasure 
of  having  her  as  a  guest  for  the  night.  Don't  you  think, 
Mr.  Roanoke,  of  —  er  —  Virginia,  that  you  could  unbend  your 
prejudices  that  far?" 

Clayton  of  Roanoke  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  "Miss  Bedford  will  be  much  pleased 
to  accept  the  hospitality  of  the  lady  you  refer  to." 

He  formally  introduced  Mr.  Pilkins  to  Miss  Bedford.  The 
girl  looked  at  him  sweetly  and  comfortably.  "It's  a  lovely 
evening,  Mr.  Pilkins  —  don't  you  think  so?"  she  said  slowly. 

Pilkins  conducted  them  to  the  crumbly  red  brick  house  of 
the  Von  der  Ruyslings.  His  card  brought  Alice  downstairs 
wondering.  The  runaways  were  sent  into  the  drawing-room, 
while  Pilkins  told  Alice  all  about  it  in  the  hall. 

"Of  course,  I  will  take  her  in,"  said  Alice.  "Haven't 
those  Southern  girls  a  thoroughbred  air?  Of  course,  she  will 
atay  here.  You  will  look  after  Mr.  Clayton,  of  course/* 

"Will  I?"  said  Pilkins,  delightedly.  "Oh,  yes,  I'll  look 
after  him!  As  a  citizen  of  New  York,  and  therefore  a  part 


The  Discounters  of  Money  47 

owner  of  its  public  parks,  I'm  going  to  extend  to  him  the 
hospitality  of  Madison  Square  to-night.  He's  going  to  sit 
there  on  a  bench  till  morning.  There's  no  use  arguing  with 
him.  Isn't  he  wonderful?  I'm  glad  you'll  look  after  the 
little  lady,  Alice.  I  tell  you  those  Babes  in  the  Wood  made 
my  —  that  is,  er  —  made  Wall  Street  and  the  Bank  of  Eng 
land  look  like  penny  arcades." 

Miss  von  der  Ruysling  whisked  Miss  Bedford  of  Bedford 
County  up  to  restful  regions  upstairs.  When  she  came  down> 
she  put  an  oblong  small  pasteboard  box  into  Pilkins'  hands-. 

"Your  present,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  returning  to  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember,"  said  Pilkins,  with  a  sigh,  "th6 
woolly  kitten." 

He  left  Clayton  on  a  park  bench,  and  shook  hands  witfe 
him  heartily. 

"After  I  get  work,"  said  the  youth,  "I'll  look  you  up. 
Your  address  is  on  your  card,  isn't  it?  Thanks.  Well,  good 
night.  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness.  No, 
thanks,  I  don't  smoke.  Good  night." 

In  his  room,  Pilkins  opened  the  box  and  took  out  the 
staring,  funny  kitten,  long  ago  ravaged  of  his  candy  and 
minus  one  shoe-button  eye.  Pilkins  looked  at  it  sorrowfully. 

"After  all/'  he  said,  "I  don't  believe  that  just  money 
alone  will — " 

And  then  he  gave  a  shout  and  dug  into  the  bottom  of  the 
box  for  something  else  that  had  been  the  kitten's  resting- 
place  —  a  crushed  but  red,  red,  fragrant,  glorious,  promising 
Jacqueminot  rose. 


IV 
THE  ENCHANTED  PROFILE 

THERE  are  few  Caliphesses.  Women  are  Scheherazades 
by  birth,  predilection,  instinct,  and  arrangement  of  the  vocal 
cords.  The  thousand  and  one  stories  are  being  told  every 
day  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  viziers'  daughters  to  their 
respective  sultans.  But  the  bowstring  will  get  some  of  'em 
yet  if  they  don't  watch  out. 

I  heard  a  story,  though,  of  one  lady  Caliph.  It  isn't  pre 
cisely  an  Arabian  Nights  story,  because  it  brings  in  Cinderella, 
who  flourished  her  dishrag  in  another  epoch  and  country. 
So,  if  you  don't  mind  the  mixed  dates  (which  seem  to  give 
it  an  Eastern  flavour,  after  all),  we'll  get  along. 

In  New  York  there  is  an  old,  old  hotel.  You  have  seen 
woodcuts  of  it  in  the  magazines.  It  was  built  —  let's  see  — 
at  a  time  when  there  was  nothing  above  Fourteenth  Street 
except  the  old  Indian  trail  to  Boston  and  Hammerstein's  office. 
Soon  the  old  hostelry  will  be  torn  down.  And,  as  the  stout 
walls  are  riven  apart  and  the  bricks  go  roaring  down  the 
chutes,  crowds  of  citizens  will  gather  at  the  nearest  corners 
and  weep  over  the  destruction  of  a  dear  old  landmark.  Civic 
pride  is  strong  in  New  Bagdad ;  and  the  wettest  weeper  and 
the  loudest  howler  against  the  inonoclasts  will  be  the  man 
(originally  from  Terre  Haute)  whose  fond  memories  of  the 
old  hotel  are  limited  to  his  having  been  kicked  out  from  its 
free-lunch  counter  in  1873. 

At  this  hotel  always  stopped  Mrs.  Maggie  Brown.  Mrs. 
Brown  was  a  bony  woman  of  sixty,  dressed  in  the  rustiest 

48 


The  Enchanted  Profile  49 

black,  and  carrying  a  handbag  made,  apparently,  from  the 
hide  of  the  original  animal  that  Adam  decided  to  call  an  al 
ligator.  She  always  occupied  a  small  parlour  and  bedroom  at 
the  top  of  the  hotel  at  a  rental  of  two  dollars  per  day.  And 
always,  while  she  was  there,  each  day  came  hurrying  to  see 
her  many  men,  sharp-faced,  anxious-looking,  with  only  sec 
onds  to  spare.  For  Maggie  Brown  was  said  to  be  the  third 
richest  woman  in  the  world;  and  these  solicitous  gentlemen 
were  only  the  city's  wealthiest  brokers  and  business  men  seek 
ing  trifling  loans  of  half  a  dozen  millions  or  so  from  the 
dingy  old  lady  with  the  prehistoric  handbag. 

The  stenographer  and  typewriter  of  the  Acropolis  Hotel 
(there!  I've  let  the  name  of  it  out!)  was  Miss  Ida  Bates. 
She  was  a  hold-over  from  the  Greek  classics.  There  wasn't 
a  flaw  in  her  looks.  Some  old-timer  in  paying  his  regards  to 
a  lady  said:  "To  have  loved  her  was  a  liberal  education." 
Well,  even  to  have  looked  over  the  back  hair  and  neat  white 
shirtwaist  of  Miss  Bates  was  equal  to  a  full  course  in  any 
correspondence  school  in  the  country.  *  She  sometimes  did  a 
little  typewriting  for  me  and,  as  she  refused  to  take  the 
money  in  advance,  she  came  to  look  upon  me  as  something  of 
a  friend  and  protege.  I  She  had  unfailing  kindliness  and  good 
nature;  and  not  even  a  white-lead  drummer  or  a  fur  importer 
had  ever  dared  to  cross  the  dead  line  of  good  behaviour  in 
her  presence.  The  entire  force  of  the  Acropolis,  from  the 
owner,  who  lived  in  Vienna,  down  to  the  head  porter,  who 
had  been  bedridden  for  sixteen  years,  would  have  sprung  to 
her  defence  in  a  moment. 

One  day  I  walked  past  Miss  Bates's  little  sanctum  Rem- 
ingtorium,  and  saw  in  her  place  a  black-haired  unit  —  un 
mistakably  a  person  —  pounding  with  each  of  her  forefingers 
upon  the  keys.  Musing  on  the  mutability  of  temporal  af 
fairs,  I  passed  on.  The  next  day  I  went  on  a  two  weeks' 
vacation.  Returning,  I  strolled  through  the  lobby  of  the 


50  Roods  of  Destiny 

Acropolis,  and  saw,  with  a  little  warm  glow  of  auld  lang  syne, 
Miss  Bates,  as  Grecian  and  kind  and  flawless  as  ever,  just 
putting  the  cover  on  her  machine.  The  hour  for  closing  had 
come;  but  she  asked  me  in  to  sit  for  a  few  minutes  in  the 
dictation  chair.  Miss  Bates  explained  her  absence  from  and 
return  to  the  Acropolis  Hotel  in  words  identical  with  or  sim 
ilar  to  these  following; 

"Well,  Man,  how  are  the  stories  coming?" 

"Pretty  regularly/'  said  I.  "About  equal  to  their  go 
ing." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  she.  "Good  typewriting  is  the  main 
thing  in  a  story.  You've  missed  me,  haven't  you  ?" 

"No  one,"  said  I,  "whom  I  have  ever  known  knows  as 
Tvell  as  you  do  how  to  space  properly  belt  buckles.,  semi-colons, 
hotel  guests,  and  hairpins.  But  you've  been  away,  too.  I 
saw  a  package  of  peppermint-pepsin  in  your  place  the  other 
day." 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  it,"  said  Miss  Bates,  "if  you 
hadn't  interrupted  me. 

"Of  course,  you  know  about  Maggie  Brown,  who  stops 
here.  Well,  she's  worth  $40,000,000.  She  lives  in  Jersey  in 
a  ten-dollar  flat.  She's  always  got  more  cash  on  hand  than 
half  a  dozen  business  candidates  for  vice-president.  I  don't 
know  whether  she  carries  it  in  her  stocking  or  not,  but  I 
know  she's  mighty  popular  down  in  the  part  of  the  town  where 
they  worship  the  golden  calf. 

"Well,  about  two  weeks  ago,  Mrs.  Brown  stops  at  the  door 
and  rubbers  at  me  for  ten  minutes.  I'm  sitting  with  my  side 
to  her,  striking  off  some  manifold  copies  of  a  copper-mine 
proposition  for  a  nice  old  man  from  Tonopah.  But  I  always 
see  everything  all  around  me.  When  I'm  hard  at  work  I  can 
see  things  through  my  side-combs;  and  I  can  leave  one  but 
ton  unbuttoned  in  the  back  of  my  shirtwaist  and  see  who's  be- 


The  Enchanted  Profile  51 

hind  me.  I  didn't  look  around,  because  I  make  from  eighteen 
to  twenty  dollars  a  week,  and  I  didn't  have  to. 

"That  evening  at  knocking-off  time  she  sends  for  me  to 
come  up  to  her  apartment.  I  expected  to  have  to  typewrite 
about  two  thousand  words  of  notes-of-hand,  liens,  and  con 
tracts,  with  a  ten-cent  tip  in  sight;  but  I  went.  Well,  Man, 
I  was  certainly  surprised.  Old  Maggie  Brown  had  turned 
human. 

"  'Child,'  says  she,  'you're  the  most  beautiful  creature  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life.  I  want  you  to  quit  your  work  and  come 
and  live  with  me.  I've  no  kith  or  kin,'  says  she,  'except  a 
husband  and  a  son  or  two,  and  I  hold  no  communication  with 
any  of  'em.  They're  extravagant  burdens  on  a  hard-working 
woman.  I  want  you  to  be  a  daughter  to  me.  They  say  I'm 
stingy  and  mean,  and  the  papers  print  lies  about  my  doing 
my  own  cooking  and  washing.  It's  a  lie,'  she  goes  on.  'I 
put  my  washing  out,  except  the  handkerchiefs  and  stockings 
and  petticoats  and  collars,  and  light  stuff  like  that.  I've  got 
forty  million  dollars  in  cash  and  stocks  and  bonds  that  are  as 
negotiable  as  Standard  Oil,  preferred,  at  a  church  fair.  I'm 
a  lonely  old  woman  and  I  need  companionship.  You're  the 
most  beautiful  human  being  I  ever  saw,'  says  she.  'Will 
you  come  and  live  with  me?  I'll  show  'em  whether  I  can 
spend  money  or  not,'  she  says. 

"Well,  Man,  what  would  you  have  done?  Of  course,  I 
fell  to  it.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  began  to  like  old 
Maggie.  It  wasn't  all  on  account  of  the  forty  millions  and 
what  she  could  do  for  me.  I  was  kind  of  lonesome  in  the 
world,  too.  Everybody's  got  to  have  somebody  they  can 
explain  to  about  the  pain  in  their  left  shoulder  and  how  fast 
patent-leather  shoes  wear  out  when  they  begin  to  crack.  And 
you  can't  talk  about  such  things  to  men  you  meet  in  hotels  — 
they're  looking  for  just  such  openings. 


52  Roads  of  Destiny 

"So  I  gave  up  my  job  in  the  hotel  and  went  with  Mrs, 
Brown.  I  certainly  seemed  to  have  a  mash  on  her.  She'd 
look  at  me  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time  when  I  was  r  itting,  read 
ing,  or  looking  at  the  magazines. 

|  "One  time  I  says  to  her:  *Do  I  remind  you  of  some  de 
ceased  relative  or  friend  of  your  childhood,  Mrs.  Brown? 
I've  noticed  you  give  me  a  pretty  good  optical  inspection  from 
time  to  time/ 

"  'You  have  a  face,'  she  says,  'exactly  like  a  dear  friend 
of  mine  —  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  But  I  like  you  for 
yourself,  child,  too,'  she  says. 

"And  say,  Man,  what  do  you  suppose  she  did?  Loosened 
up  like  a  Marcel  wave  in  the  surf  at  Coney.  She  took  me 
to  a  swell  dressmaker  and  gave  her  a  la  carte  to  fit  me  out 

—  money  no   object.     They  were  rush   orders,  and  madame 
locked  the  front  door  and  put  the  whole  force  to  work. 

"Then  we  moved  to  —  where  do  you  think?  —  no;  guess 
again  —  that's  right  —  the  Hotel  Bonton.  We  had  a  six-room 
apartment;  and  it  cost  $100  a  day.  I  saw  the  bill.  I  began 
to  love  that  old  lady. 

"And  then,  Man,  when  my  dresses  began  to  come  in  — 
oh,  I  won't  tell  you  about  'em !  you  couldn't  understand.  And 
I  began  to  call  her  Aunt  Maggie.  You've  read  about  Cinder 
ella,  of  course.  Well,  what  Cinderella  said  when  the  prince 
fitted  that  8^/2  A  on  her  foot  was  a  hard-luck  story  compared 
to  the  things  I  told  myself. 

"Then  Aunt  Maggie  says  she  is  going  to  give  me  a  com 
ing-out  banquet  in  the  Bonton  that'll  make  moving  Vans  of 
all  the  old  Dutch  families  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

"  'I've  been  out  before,  Aunt  Maggie,"  says  I.  'But  I'll 
come  out  again.  But  you  know,'  says  I,  'that  this  is  one  of 
the  swellest  hotels  in  the  city.  And  you  know  —  pardon  me 

—  that  it's  hard  to  get  a  bunch  of  notables  together  unless 
you've  trained  for  it/ 


The  Enchanted  Profile  53 

"  'Don't  fret  about  that,  child/  says  Aunt  Maggie.  'I 
don't  send  out  invitations  —  I  issue  orders.  I'll  have  fifty 
guests  here  that  couldn't  be  brought  together  again  at  any 
reception  unless  it  were  given  by  King  Edward  or  William 
Travers  Jerome.  They  are  men,  of  course,  and  all  of  'em 
either  owe  me  money  or  intend  to.  Some  of  their  wives  won't 
come,  but  a  good  many  will/ 

"Well,  I  wish  you  could  have  been  at  that  banquet.  The 
dinner  service  was  all  gold  and  cut  glass.  There  were  about 
forty  men  and  eight  ladies  present  besides  Aunt  Maggie  and 
I.  You'd  never  have  known  the  third  richest  woman  in  the 
World.  She  had  on  a  new  black  silk  dress  with  so  much  pas 
sementerie  on  it  that  it  sounded  exactly  like  a  hailstorm  I 
heard  once  when  I  was  staying  all  night  with  a  girl  that  lived 
in  a  top-floor  studio. 

"And  my  dress !  —  say,  Man,  I  can't  waste  the  words  on 
you.  It  was  all  hand-made  lace  —  where  there  was  any  of 
it  at  all  —  and  it  cost  $300.  I  saw  the  bill.  The  men  were 
all  bald-headed  or  white-side-whiskered,  and  they  kept  up  a 
running  fire  of  light  repartee  about  3-per  cents,  and  Bryan  and 
the  cotton  crop. 

"On  the  left  of  me  was  something  that  talked  like  a  banker, 
and  on  my  right  was  a  young  fellow  who  said  he  was  a  news 
paper  artist.  He  was  the  only  —  well,  I  was  going  to  tell 
you. 

"After  the  dinner  was  over  Mrs.  Brown  and  I  went  up 
to  the  apartment.  WTe  had  to  squeeze  our  way  through  a  mob 
of  reporters  all  the  way  through  the  halls.  That's  one  of  the 
things  money  does  for  you.  Say,  do  you  happen  to  know  a 
newspaper  artist  named  Lathrop  —  a  tall  man  with  nice  eyes 
and  an  easy  way  of  talking?  No,  I  don't  remember  what 
paper  he  works  on.^_Well,  all  right. 

"When  we  got  upstairs  Mrs.  Brown  telephones  for  the 
bill  right  away.  It  came,  and  it  was  $600.  I  saw  the  bill. 


54  Roads  of  Destiny 

Aunt  Maggie  fainted.  I  got  her  on  a  lounge  and  opened  the 
bead-work. 

"  'Child/  says  she,  when  she  got  back  to  the  world,  'what 
was  it?  A  raise  of  rent  or  an  income-tax?' 

"  'Just  a  little  dinner.'  says  I.     'Nothing  to  worry  about 

—  hardly  a  drop  in  the  bucket-shop.     Sit  up  and  take  notice 

—  a  dispossess  notice,  if  there's  no  other  kind/ 

"But,  say,  Man,  do  you  know  what  Aunt  Maggie  did? 
She  got  cold  feet!  She  hustled  me  out  of  that  Hotel  Bonton 
at  nine  the  next  morning.  We  went  to  a  rooming-house  on 
the  lower  West  Side.  She  rented  one  room  that  had  water 
on  the  floor  below  and  light  on  the  floor  above.  After  we  got 
moved  all  you  could  see  in  the  room  was  about  $1,500  worth 
of  new  swell  dresses  and  a  one-burner  gas-stove. 

"Aunt  Maggie  had  1  id  a  sudden  attack  of  the  hedges. 
I  guess  everybody  has  got  lo  go  on  a  spree  once  in  their 
life.  A  man  spends  his  on  highballs,  and  a  woman  gets 
woozy  on  clothes.  But  with  forty  million  dollars  —  say !  I'd 
like  to  have  a  picture  of  —  but,  speaking  of  pictures,  did  you 
ever  run  across  a  newspaper  artist  named  Lathrop  —  a  tall  — 
oh,  I  asked  you  that  before,  didn't  I?  He  was  mighty  nice 
to  me  at  the  dinner.  His  voice  just  suited  me.  I  guess  he 
must  have  thought  I  was  to  inherit  some  of  Aunt  Maggie's 
money. 

"Well,  Mr.  Man,  three  days  of  that  light-housekeeping  was 
plenty  for  me.  Aunt  Maggie  was  affectionate  as  ever.  She'd 
hardly  let  me  get  out  of  her  sight.  But  let  me  tell  you. 
She  was  a  hedger  from  Hedgersville,  Hedger  County.  Sev 
enty-five  cents  a  day  was  the  limit  she  set.  We  cooked  our 
own  meals  in  the  room.  There  I  was,  with  a  thousand  dollars* 
worth  of  the  latest  things  in  clothes,  doing  stunts  over  a  one- 
burner  gas-tove. 

"As  I  say,  on  the  third  day  I  flew  the  coop.  I  couldn't 
stand  for  throwing  together  a  fifteen-cent  kidney  stew  while 


The  Enchanted  Profile  55 

wearing,  at  the  same  time,  a  $150  house-dress,  with  Valen 
ciennes  lace  insertion.  So  I  goes  into  the  closet  and  puts  on 
the  cheapest  dress  Mrs.  Brown  had  bought  for  me  —  it's  the 
one  I've  got  on  now  —  not  so  bad  for  $75,  is  it?  I'd  left  all 
my  own  clothes  in  my  sister's  flat  in  Brooklyn. 

"  'Mrs.  Brown,  formerly  "Aunt  Maggie,"  '  says  I  to  her, 
'I  am  going  to  extend  my  feet  alternately,  one  after  the 
other,  in  cuch  a  manner  and  direction  that  this  tenement  will 
recede  fron  me  in  the  quickest  possible  time.  I  am  no  wor 
shipper  of  money,'  says  I,  'but  there  are  some  things  I  can't 
stand.  I  can  stand  the  fabulous  monster  that  I've  read  about 
that  blows  hot  birds  and  cold  bottles  with  the  same  breath. 
But  I  can't  stand  a  quitter/  r  iys  I.  'They  say  you've  got 
forty  million  dollars  —  well,  you'll  never  have  any  less.  And 
I  was  beginning  to  like  you,  too,'  says  I. 

"Well,  the  late  Aunt  Maggie  kicks  till  the  tears  flow.  She 
offers  to  move  into  a  swell  room  with  a  two-burner  stove  and 
running  water. 

"  'I've  spent  an  awful  lot  of  money,  child/  says  she. 
'We'll  have  to  economize  for  a  while.  You're  the  most  beau 
tiful  creature  I  ever  laid  eyes  on,'  she  says,  'and  I  don't 
want  you  to  leave  me.' 

"Well,  you  see  me,  don't  you?  I  walked  straight  to  the 
Acropolis  and  asked  for  my  job  back,  and  I  got  it.  How 
did  you  say  your  writings  were  getting  along?  I  know  you've 
lost  out  some  by  not  having  me  to  typewrite  'em.  Do  you  ever 
have  'em  illustrated?  And,  by  the  way,  did  you  ever  happen 
to  know  a  newspaper  artist  —  oh,  shut  up !  I  know  I  asked 
you  before.  I  wonder  what  paper  he  works  on?  It's  funny, 
but  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  he  wasn't  thinking  about  the 
money  he  might  have  been  thinking  I  was  thinking  I'd  get 
from  old  Maggie  Brown.  If  I  only  knew  some  of  the  news 
paper  editors  I'd  —  " 

The  sound  of  an  easy  footstep  came  from  the  doorway.     Ids 


56  Roads  of  Destiny 

Bates  saw  who  it  was  with  her  back-hair  comb.  I  saw  her 
turn  pink,  perfect  statue  that  she  was  —  a  miracle  that  I 
share  with  Pygmalion  only. 

"Am  I  excusable?"  she  said  to  me  —  adorable  petitioner 
that  she  became.  "It's  —  it's  Mr.  Lathrop.  I  wonder  if  it 
really  wasn't  the  money  —  I  wonder,  if  after  all,  he  —  " 

Of  course,  I  was  invited  to  the  wedding.  After  the  cere 
mony  I  dragged  Lathrop  aside. 

"You  an  artist,"  said  I,  "and  haven't  figured  out  why  Mag 
gie  Brown  conceived  such  a  strong  liking  for  Miss  Bates  — 
that  was  ?  Let  me  show  you." 

The  bride  wore  a  simple  white  dress  as  beautifully  draped 
as  the  costumes  of  the  ancient  Greeks.  I  took  some  leaves 
from  one  of  the  decorative  wreaths  in  the  little  parlour,  and 
made  a  chaplet  of  them,  and  placed  them  on  nee  Bates  shining 
chestnut  hair,  and  made  her  turn  her  profile  to  fyer  husband. 

"By  jingo!"  said  he.  "Isn't  Ida's  a  dead  ringer  for  the 
lady's  head  on  the  silver  dollar?" 


"NEXT  TO  READING  MATTER" 

HE  COMPELLED  my  interest  as  he  stepped  from  the 
ferry  at  Desbrosses  Street.  He  had  the  air  of  being  familiar 
with  hemispheres  and  worlds,  and  of  entering  New  York  as 
the  lord  of  a  demesne  who  revisited  it  in  after  years  of  ab 
sence.  But  I  thought  that,  with  all  his  air,  he  had  never 
before  set  foot  on  the  slippery  cobblestones  of  the  City  of 
Too  Many  Caliphs. 

He  wore  loose  clothes  of  a  strange  bluish  drab  colour,  and 
a  conservative, 'round  Panama  hat  without  the  cock-a-loop 
indentations  and  cants  with  which  Northern  fanciers  disfigure 
the  tropic  head-gear.  Moreover,  he  was  the  homeliest  man  I 
have  ever  seen.  His  ugliness  was  less  repellent  than  startling 
—  arising  from  a  sort  of  Lincolnian  ruggedness  and  irregu 
larity  of  feature  that  spellbound  you  with  wonder  and  dis 
may.  So  may  have  looked  afrites  or  the  shapes  metamor 
phosed  from  the  vapour  of  the  fisherman's  vase.  As  he  after 
ward  told  me,  his  name  was  Jjudson  Tate;  and  he  may  as  well 
be  called  so  at  once.  He  wore  his  green  silk  tie  through  a 
topaz  ring;  and  he  carried  a  cane  made  of  the  vertebrae  of  a 
shark. 

Judson  Tate  accosted  me  with  some  large  and  casual  in 
quiries  about  the  city's  streets  and  hotels,  in  the  manner  of  one 
who  had  but  for  the  moment  forgotten  the  trifling  details.  I 
could  think  of  no  reason  for  dispraising  my  own  quiet  hotel 
in  the  downtown  district;  so  the  mid-morning  of  the  night 
found  us  already  victualed  and  drinked  (at  my  expense),  and 

57 


58  Roads  of  Destiny 

ready  to  be  chaired  and  tobaccoed  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the 
lobby. 

There  was  something  on  Judson  Tate's  mind,  and,  such 
as  it  was,  he  tried  to  convey  it  to  me.  Already  he  had  ac 
cepted  me  as  his  friend ;  and  when  I  looked  at  his  great,  snuff- 
brown  first-mate's  hand,  with  which  he  brought  emphasis  to 
his  periods,  within  six  inches  of  my  nose,  I  wondered  if,  by 
any  chance,  he  was  as  sudden  in  conceiving  enmity  against 
strangers. 

When  this  man  began  to  talk  I  perceived  in  him  a  certain 
power.  His  voice  was  a  persuasive  instrument,  upon  which 
he  played  with  a  somewhat  specious  but  effective  art.  He 
did  not  try  to  make  you  forget  his  ugliness;  he  flaunted  it  in 
your  face  and  made  it  part  of  the  charm  of  his  speech.  Shut 
ting  your  eyes,  you  would  have  trailed  after  this  rat-catcher's 
pipes  at  least  to  the  walls  of  Hamelin.  Beyond  that  you 
would  have  had  to  be  more  childish  to  follow.  But  let  him 
play  his  own  tune  to  the  words  set  down,  so  that  if  all  is  too 
dull,  the  art  of  music  may  bear  the  blame. 

"Women,"  said  Judson  Tate,  "are  mysterious  creatures." 

My  spirits  sank.  I  was  not  there  to  listen  to  such  a  world- 
old  hypothesis  —  to  such  a  time-worn,  long-ago-refuted,  bald, 
feeble,  illogical,  vicious,  patent  sophistry  —  to  an  ancient, 
baseless,  wearisome,  ragged,  unfounded,  insidious  falsehood 
originated  by  women  themselves,  and  by  them  insinuated, 
foisted,  thrust,  spread,  and  ingeniously  promulgated  into  the 
ears  of  mankind  by  underhanded,  secret  and  deceptive  meth 
ods,  for  the  purpose  of  argumenting,  furthering,  and  reinforc 
ing  their  own  charms  and  designs. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !"  said  I,  vernacularly. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  Oratama?"  he  asked. 

"Possibly,"  I  answered.  "I  seem  to  recall  a  toe  dancer 
—  or  a  suburban  addition  —  or  was  it  a  perfume  ?  —  of  some 
such  name," 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter'9  59 

"It  is  a  town,"  said  Judson  Tate.  "on  the  coast  of  a 
foreign  country  of  which  you  know  nothing  and  could  under 
stand  less.  It  is  a  country  governed  by  a  dictator  and  con 
trolled  by  revolutions  and  insubordination.  It  was  there  that 
a  great  life-drama  was  played,  with  Judson  Tate,  the  homeliest 
man  in  America,  and  Fergus  McMahan,  the  handsomest  ad 
venturer  in  history  or  fiction,  and  Senorita  Anabela  Zamora, 
the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  alcalde  of  Oratama,  as  chief  ac 
tors.  And,  another  thing  —  nowhere  else  on  the  globe  except 
in  the  department  of  Trienta  y  tres  in  Uruguay  does  the 
chuchula  plant  grow.  The  products  of  the  country  I  speak 
of  arj  valuable  woods,  dyestuffs,  gold,  rubber,  ivory  and 
cocoa 

"I  was  not  aware,"  said  I,  "that  South  America  produced 
any  ivory." 

"There  you  are  twice  mistaken/'  said  Judson  Tate,  dis 
tributing  the  words  over  at  least  an  octave  of  his  wonderful 
voice.  "I  did  not  say  that  the  country  I  spoke  of  was  in 
South  America  —  I  must  be  careful,  my  dear  man;  I  have 
been  in  politics  there,  you  know.  But.  even  so  —  I  have 
played  chess  against  its  president  with  a  set  carved  from  the 
nasal  bones  of  the  tapir  —  one  of  our  native  specimens  of  the 
order  of  perissodactyle  ungulates  inhabiting  the  Cordilleras 
—  which  was  as  pretty  ivory  as  you  would  care  to  see. 

"But  it  was  of  romance  and  adventure  and  the  ways  of 
women  that  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  and  not  of  zoological 
animals. 

"For  fifteen  years  I  was  the  ruling  power  behind  old 
Sancho  Benavides,  the  Royal  High  Thumbscrew  of  the  re~ 
public.  You've  seen  his  picture  in  the  papers  —  a  mushy 
black  man  with  whiskers  like  the  notes  on  a  Swiss  music-box 
cylinder,  and  a  scroll  in  his  right  hand  like  the  ones  they 
write  births  on  in  the  family  Bible.  Well,  that  chocolate 
potentate  used  to  be  the  biggest  item  of  interest  anywhere 


60  Roads  of  Destiny 

between  the  colour  line  and  the  parallels  of  latitude.  It  was 
three  throws,  horses,  whether  he  was  to  wind  up  in  the  Hall 
of  Fame  or  the  Bureau  of  Combustibles.  He'd  have  been 
sure  called  the  Roosevelt  of  the  Southern  Continent  if  it 
hadn't  been  that  Grover  Cleveland  was  President  at  the  time. 
He'd  hold  office  a  couple  of  terms,  then  he'd  sit  out  for  a 
hand  —  always  after  appointing  his  own  successor  for  the 
interims. 

"But  it  was  not  Benavides,  the  Liberator,  who  was  making 
all  this  fame  for  himself.  Not  him.  It  was  Judson  Tate. 
Benavides  was  only  the  chip  over  the  bug.  I  gave  him  the 
tip  when  to  declare  war  and  increase  import  duties  and  wear 
his  state  trousers.  But  that  wasn't  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you.  How  did  I  get  to  be  It?  I'll  tell  you.  Because  I'm 
the  most  gifted  talker  that  ever  made  vocal  sounds  since 
Adam  first  opened  his  eyes,  pushed  aside  the  smelling-salts, 
and  asked:  'Where  am  I?' 

"As  you  observe,  I  am  about  the  ugliest  man  you  ever 
saw  outside  the  gallery  of  photographs  of  the  New  England 
early  Christian  Scientists.  So,  at  an  early  age,  I  perceived 
that  what  I  lacked  in  looks  I  must  make  up  in  eloquence. 
That  I've  done.  I  get  what  I  go  after.  As  the  back-stop 
and  still  small  voice  of  old  Benavides  I  made  all  the  great 
historical  powers-behind-the-throne,  such  as  Talleyrand,  Mrs. 
de  Pompadour,  and  Loeb,  look  as  small  as  the  minority  re 
port  of  a  Duma.  I  could  talk  nations  into  or  out  of  debt, 
harangue  armies  to  sleep  on  the  battlefield,  reduce  insurrec 
tions,  inflammations,  taxes,  appropriations  or  surpluses  with  a 
few  words,  and  call  up  the  dogs  of  war  or  the  dove  of  peace 
with  the  same  bird-like  whistle.  Beauty  and  epaulettes  and 
curly  moustaches  and  Grecian  profiles  in  other  men  were  never 
in  my  way.  When  people  first  look  at  me  they  shudder. 
Unless  they  are  in  the  last  stages  of  angina  pectoris  they  are 
mine  in  ten  minutes  after  I  begin  to  talk.  Women  and  men  — 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter'  61 

I  win  'em  as  they  come.  Now,  you  wouldn't  think  women 
would  fancy  a  man  with  a  face  like  mine,  would  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Tate,"  said  I.  "History  is  bright  and 
fiction  dull  with  homely  men  who  have  charmed  women. 
There  seems  —  " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Judson  Tate,  "but  you  don't 
quite  understand.  You  have  yet  to  hear  my  story. 

"Fergus  McMahan  was  a  friend  of  mine  in  the  capital. 
For  a  handsome  man  I'll  admit  he  was  the  duty-free  merchan 
dise.  He  had  blond  curls  and  laughing  blue  eyes  and  was  fea 
tured  regular.  They  said  he  was  a  ringer  for  the  statue  they 
call  Herr  Mees,  the  god  of  speech  and  eloquence  resting  in 
some  museum  at  Rome.  Some  German  anarchist,  I  suppose. 
They  are  always  resting  and  talking. 

"But  Fergus  was  no  talker.  He  was  brought  up  with  the 
idea  that  to  be  beautiful  was  to  make  good.  His  conversation 
was  about  as  edifying  as  listening  to  a  leak  dropping  in  a 
tin  dish-pan  at  the  head  of  the  bed  when  you  want  to  go  to 
sleep.  But  he  and  me  got  to  be  friends  —  maybe  because  we 
was  so  opposite,  don't  you  think  ?  Looking  at  the  Hallowe'en 
mask  that  I  call  my  face  when  I'm  shaving  seemed  to  give 
Fergus  pleasure;  and  I'm  sure  that  whenever  I  heard  the 
feeble  output  of  throat  noises  that  he  called  conversation  I 
felt  contented  to  be  a  gargoyle  with  a  silver  tongue. 

"One  time  I  found  it  necessary  to  go  down  to  this  coast 
town  of  Oratama  to  straighten  out  a  lot  of  political  unrest  and 
chop  off  a  few  heads  in  the  customs  and  military  departments. 
Fergus,  who  owned  the  ice  and  sulphur-match  concessions  of 
the  republic,  says  he'll  keep  me  company. 

"So,  in  a  jangle  of  mule-train  bells,  we  gallops  into  Ora 
tama,  and  the  town  belonged  to  us  as  much  as  Long  Island 
Sound  doesn't  belong  to  Japan  when  T.  R.  is  at  Oyster  Bay. 
I  say  us;  but  I  mean  me.  Everybody  for  four  nations,  two 
oceansj  one  bay  and  isthmus,  and  five  achipelagoes  around 


62  Roads  of  Destiny 

had  heard  of  Judson  Tate.  Gentleman  adventurer,  they  called 
me.  I  had  been  written  up  in  five  columns  of  the  yellow 
journals,  40,000  words  (with  marginal  decorations)  in  a 
monthly  magazine,  and  a  stickful  on  the  twelfth  page  of  the 
New  York  Times.  If  the  beauty  of  Fergus  McMahan  gained 
any  part  of  our  reception  in  Oratama,  I'll  eat  the  price-tag 
in  my  Panama.  It  was  me  that  they  hung  out  paper  flowers 
and  palm  branches  for.  I  am  not  a  jealous  man;  I  am  stating 
facts.  The  people  were  Nebuchadnezzars ;  they  bit  the  grass 
before  me;  there  was  no  dust  in  the  town  for  them  to  bite. 
They  bowed  down  to  Judson  Tate.  They  knew  that  I  was 
the  power  behind  Sancho  Benavides.  A  word  from  me  was 
more  to  them  than  a  whole  deckle-edged  library  from  East 
Aurora  in  sectional  bookcases  was  from  anybody  else.  And 
yet  there  are  people  who  spend  hours  fixing  their  faces  — 
rubbing  in  cold  cream  and  massaging  the  muscles  (always  to 
ward  the  eyes)  and  taking  in  the  slack  with  tincture  of  benzoin 
and  electrolyzing  moles  —  to  what  end  ?  Looking  handsome. 
Oh,  what  a  mistake!  It's  the  larynx  that  the  beauty  doctors 
ought  to  work  on.  It's  words  more  than  warts,  talk  more  than 
talcum,  palaver  more  than  powder,  blarney  more  than  bloom 
that  counts  —  the  phonograph  instead  of  the  photograph.  But 
I  was  going  to  tell  you. 

"The  local  Astors  put  me  and  Fergus  up  at  the  Centipede 
Club,  a  frame  building  built  on  posts  sunk  in  the  surf.  The 
tide's  only  nine  inches.  The  Little  Big  High  Low  Jack-in- 
the-game  of  the  town  came  around  and  kowtowed.  Oh,  it 
wasn't  to  Herr  Mees.  They  had  heard  about  Judson  Tate. 

"One  afternoon  me  and  Fergus  McMahan  was  sitting  on 
the  seaward  gallery  of  the  Centipede,  drinking  iced  rum  and 
talking. 

"  'Judson,'  says  Fergus,  'there's  an  angel  in  Oratama.' 

"  'So  long,'  says  I,  'as  it  ain't  Gabriel,  why  talk  as  if  you 
had  heard  a  trump  blow?' 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter"  63 

"  'It's  the  Senorita  Anabela  Zamora/  says  Fergus.  'She's 
—  she's  —  she's  as  lovely  as  —  as  hell !' 

"  'Bravo !'  says  I,  laughing  heartily.  'You  have  a  true 
lover's  eloquence  to  paint  the  beauties  of  your  inamorata.  You 
remind  me,'  says  I,  'of  Faust's  wooing  of  Marguerite  —  that 
is,  if  he  wooed  her  after  he  went  down  the  trap-door  of  the 
stage.' 

"  'Judson/  says  Fergus,  'you  know  you  are  as  beautiless  as 
a  rhinoceros.  You  can't  have  any  interest  in  women.  I'm 
awfully  gone  on  Miss  Anabela.  And  that's  why  I'm  telling 
you." 

"  'Oh,  seguramente/  says  I.  'I  know  I  have  a  front  ele 
vation  like  an  Aztec  god  that  guards  a  buried  treasure  that 
never  did  exist  in  Jefferson  County,  Yucatan.  But  there  are 
compensations.  For  instance,  I  am  It  in  this  country  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  then  a  few  perches  and  poles.  And 
again/  says  I,  'when  I  engage  people  in  a  set-to  of  oral,  vocal, 
and  laryngeal  utterances,  I  do  not  usually  confine  my  side  of 
the  argument  to  what  may  be  likened  to  a  cheap  phonographic 
reproduction  of  the  ravings  of  a  jellyfish/ 

"  'Oh,  I  know/  says  Fergus,  amiable,  'that  I'm  not  handy 
at  small  talk.  Or  large,  either.  That's  why  I'm  telling  you. 
I  want  you  to  help  me.' 

'"How  can  I  doit?'  I  asked. 

"  'I  have  subsidized/  says  Fergus,  'the  services  of  Senorita 
Anabela's  duenna,  whose  name  is  Francesca.  You  have  a 
reputation  in  this  country,  Judson/  says  Fergus,  'of  being  a 
great  man  and  a  hero.' 

"  'I  have/  says  I.     'And  I  deserve  it.' 

"  'And  I/  says  Fergus,  'am  the  best-looking  man  between 
the  arctic  circle  and  antarctic  ice  pack/ 

'  'With  limitations,'  says  I,  'as  to  physiognomy  and  geog 
raphy,  I  freely  concede  you  to  be.' 

"  'Between  the  two  of  us/  says  Fergus,  'we  ought  to  land 


64  Roads  of  Destiny 

the  Senorita  Anabela  Zamora.  The  lady,  as  you  know,  is  of 
an  old  Spanish  family,  and  further  than  looking  at  her  driving 
in  the  family  carruaje  of  afternoons  around  the  plaza,  or 
catching  a  glimpse  of  her  through  a  barred  window  of  even 
ings,  she  is  as  unapproachable  as  a  star.' 

"  'Land  her  for  which  one  of  us  ?'  says  I. 

"  'For  me,  of  course,'  says  Fergus.  'You've  never  seen 
her.  Now,  I've  had  Francesca  point  me  out  to  her  as  being 
you  on  several  occasions.  When  she  sees  me  on  the  plaza,  she 
thinks  she's  looking  at  Don  Judson  Tate,  the  greatest  hero, 
statesman,  and  romantic  figure  in  the  country.  With  your 
reputation  and  my  looks  combined  in  one  man,  how  can  she  re 
sist  him?  She's  heard  all  about  your  thrilling  history,  of 
course.  And  she's  seen  me.  Can  any  woman  want  more?" 
asks  Fergus  McMahan. 

"  'Can  she  do  with  less?'  I  ask.  'How  can  we  separate 
our  mutual  attractions,  and  how  shall  we  apportion  the  pro 
ceeds  ?' 

"Then  Fergus  tells  me  his  scheme. 

"The  house  of  the  alcalde,  Don  Luis  Zamora,  he  says,  has 
a  patio,  of  course  —  a  kind  of  inner  courtyard  opening  from 
the  street.  In  an  angle  of  it  is  his  daughter's  window  —  as 
dark  a  place  as  you  could  find.  And  what  do  you  think  he 
wants  me  to  do?  Why,  knowing  my  freedom,  charm,  and 
skilfulness  of  tongue,  he  proposes  that  I  go  into  the  patio  at 
midnight,  when  the  hobgoblin  face  of  me  cannot  be  seen,  and 
make  love  to  her  for  him  —  for  the  pretty  man  that  she  has 
seen  on  the  plaza,  thinking  him  to  be  Don  Judson  Tate. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  do  it  for  him  —  for  my  friend,  Fergus 
McMahan  ?  For  him  to  ask  me  was  a  compliment  —  an  ac 
knowledgment  of  his  own  shortcomings. 

'  'You  little,  lily  white,  fine-haired,  highly  polished  piece  of 
dumb  sculpture,'  says  I,  'I'll  help  you.  Make  your  arrange 
ments  and  get  me  in  the  dark  outside  her  window  and  my 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter"  65 

stream  of  conversation  opened  up  with  the  moonlight  tremolo 
stop  turned  on,  and  she's  yours.' 

"  'Keep  your  face  hid,  Jud,'  says  Fergus.  'For  heaven's 
sake,  keep  your  face  hid.  I'm  a  friend  of  yours  in  all  kinds 
of  sentiment,  but  this  is  a  business  deal.  If  I  could  talk  I 
wouldn't  ask  you.  But  seeing  me  and  listening  to  you  I  don't 
see  why  she  can't  be  landed/ 

"  'By  you?'  says  I. 

"  'By  me/  says  Fergus. 

"Well,  Fergus  and  the  duenna,  Francesca,  attended  to  the 
cfetails.  And  one  night  they  fetched  me  a  long  black  cloak 
with  a  high  collar,  and  led  me  to  the  house  at  midnight.  I 
stood  by  the  window  in  the  patio  until  I  heard  a  voice  as  soft 
and  sweet  as  an  angel's  whisper  on  the  other  side  of  the  bars. 
I  could  see  only  a  faint,  white  clad  shape  inside;  and.  true 
to  Fergus,  I  pulled  the  collar  of  my  cloak  high  up,  for  it  was 
July  in  the  wet  season,  and  the  nights  were  chilly.  And, 
smothering  a  laugh  as  I  thought  of  the  tongue-tied  Fergus,  I 
began  to  talk. 

"Well,  sir,  I  talked  an  hour  at  the  Seiiorita  Anabela.  I 
say  'at'  because  it  was  not  'with.'  Now  and  then  she  would 
say:  'Oh,  Senor,'  or  'Now,  ain't  you  foolin'?'  or  'I  know 
you  don't  mean  that,'  and  such  things  as  women  will  when 
they  are  being  rightly  courted.  Both  of  us  knew  English  and 
Spanish;  so  in  two  languages  I  tried  to  win  the  heart  of  the 
lady  for  my  friend  Fergus.  But  for  the  bars  to  the  window  I 
could  have  done  it  in  one.  At  the  end  of  the  hour  she  dis 
missed  me  and  gave  me  a  big,  red  rose.  I  handed  it  over  to 
Fergus  when  I  got  home. 

"For  three  weeks  every  third  or  fourth  night  I  impersonated 
my  friend  in  the  patio  at  the  window  of  Senorita  Anabela 
At  last  she  admitted  that  her  heart  was  mine,  and  spoke  of 
having  seen  me  every  afternoon  when  she  drove  in  the  plaza. 
It  was  Fergus  she  had  seen,  of  course.  But  it  was  my  talk 


66  Roads  of  Destiny 

that  won  her.  Suppose  Fergus  had  gone  there  and  tried  tc 
make  a  hit  in  the  dark  with  his  beauty  all  invisible,  and  not 
a  word  to  say  for  himself! 

"On  the  last  night  she  promised  to  be  mine  — >that  is,  Fer 
gus's.     And  she  put  her  hand  between  the  bars  for  me  to  kiss. 
I  bestowed  the  kiss  and  took  the  news  to  Fergus. 
*  'You  might  have  left  that  for  me  to  do.'  says  he. 

"  That'll  be  your  job  hereafter/  says  I.  'Keep  on  do 
ing  that  and  don't  try  to  talk.  Maybe  after  she  thinks  she's 
in  love  she  won't  notice  the  difference  between  real  conversa 
tion  and  the  inarticulate  sort  of  droning  that  you  give  forth/ 

"Now,  I  had  never  seen  Senorita  Anabela.  So,  the  next 
day  Fergus  asks  me  to  walk  with  him  through  the  plaza  and 
view  the  daily  promenade  and  exhibition  of  Oratama  society, 
a  sight  that  had  no  interest  for  me.  But  I  went ;  and  children 
and  dogs  took  to  the  banana  groves  and  mangrove  swamps  as 
soon  as  they  had  a  look  at  my  face. 

"  'Here  she  comes,'  said  Fergus,  twirling  his  moustache  — 
'the  one  in  white,  in  the  open  carriage  with  the  black 
horse/ 

"I  looked  and  felt  the  ground  rock  under  my  feet.  For 
Senorita  Anabela  Zamora  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world,  and  the  only  one  from  that  moment  on,  so  far  as 
Judson  Tate  was  concerned.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  I  must 
be  hers  and  she  mine  forever.  I  thought  of  my  face  and 
nearly  fainted;  and  then  I  thought  of  my  other  talents  and 
stood  upright  again.  And  I  had  been  wooing  her  for  three 
weeks  for  another  man ! 

"As  Senorita  Anabela's  carriage  rolled  slowly  past,  she 
gave  Fergus  a  long,  soft  glance  from  the  corners  of  her  night- 
black  eyes,  a  glance  that  would  have  sent  Judson  Tate  up 
into  heaven  in  a  rubber- tired  chariot.  But  she  never  looked 
at  me.  And  that  handsome  man  only  ruffles  his  curls  and 
smirks  and  prances  like  a  lady-killer  at  my  side. 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter"  67 

'"What  do  you  think  of  her,  Judson?'  asks  Fergus,  with 
an  air. 

"  This  much/  says  I.  'She  is  to  be  Mrs.  Judson  Tate.  I 
am  no  man  to  play  tricks  on  a  friend.  So  take  your  warning.' 

"I  thought  Fergus  would  die  laughing. 

"  'Well,  well,  well/  said  he,  'you  old  doughface !  Struck 
too,  are  you?  That's  great!  But  you're  too  late.  Francesca 
tells  me  that  Anabela  talks  of  nothing  but  me,  day  and  night. 
Of  course,  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  making  that  chin- 
music  to  her  of  evenings.  But,  do  you  know,  I've  an  idea  that 
I  could  have  done  it  as  well  myself/ 

"  'Mrs.  Judson  Tate/  says  I.  'Don't  forget  the  name. 
You've  had  the  use  of  my  tongue  to  go  with  your  good  looks, 
my  boy.  You  can't  lend  me  your  looks;  but  hereafter  my 
tongue  is  my  own.  Keep  your  mind  on  the  name  that's  to  be 
on  the  visiting  cards  two  inches  by  three  and  a  half  —  "Mrs, 
Judson  Tate."  That's  all.' 

"  'All  right/  says  Fergus,  laughing  again.  'I've  talked 
with  her  father,  the  alcalde,  and  he's  willing.  He's  to  give 
a  bade  to-morrow  evening  in  his  new  warehouse.  If  you  were 
a  dancing  man,  Jud,  I'd  expect  you  around  to  meet  the  future 
Mrs.  McMahan.' 

"But  on  the  next  evening,  wLen  the  music  was  playing 
loudest  at  the  Alcalde  Zamora's  baile,  into  the  room  steps  Jud 
son  Tate  in  new  white  linen  clothes  as  if  he  were  the  biggest 
man  in  the  whole  nation,  which  he  was. 

"Some  of  the  musicians  jumped  off  the  key  when  they  saw 
my  face,  and  one  or  two  of  the  timidest  senoritas  let  out  a 
screech  or  two.  But  up  prances  the  alcalde  and  almost  wipes 
the  dust  off  my  shoes  with  his  forehead.  No  mere  good  looks 
could  have  won  me  that  sensational  entrance. 

"  'I  hear  much,  Senor  Zamora/  says  I,  'of  the  charm  of 
your  daughter.  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  be  pre 
sented  to  her.' 


68  Roads  of  Destiny 

"There  were  about  six  dozen  willow  rocking-chairs,  with 
pink  tidies  tied  on  to  them,  arranged  against  the  walls.  In  one 
of  them  sat  Senorita  Anabela  in  white  Swiss  and  red  slippers, 
with  pearls  and  fireflies  in  her  hair.  Fergus  was  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  trying  to  break  away  from  two  maroons  and  a 
claybank  girl. 

"The  alcalde  leads  me  up  to  Anabela  and  presents  me. 
When  she  took  the  first  look  at  my  face  she  dropped  her  fan 
and  nearly  turned  her  chair  over  from  the  shock.  But  I'm 
used  to  that. 

"I  sat  down  by  her  and  began  to  talk.  When  she  heard 
me  speak  she  jumped,  and  her  eyes  got  as  big  as  alligator 
pears.  She  couldn't  strike  a  balance  between  the  tones  of 
my  voice  and  the  face  I  carried.  But  I  kept  on  talking  in 
the  key  of  C,  which  is  the  ladies'  key;  and  presently  she  sat 
still  in  her  chair  and  a  dreamy  look  came  into  her  eyes.  She 
was  coming  my  way.  She  knew  of  Judson  Tate,  and  what  a 
big  man  he  was,  and  the  big  things  he  had  done;  and  that 
was  in  my  favour.  But,  of  course,  it  was  some  shock  to  her 
to  find  out  that  I  was  not  the  pretty  man  that  had  been  pointed 
out  to  her  as  the  great  Judson.  And  then  I  took  the  Spanish 
language,  which  is  better  than  English  for  certain  purposes, 
and  played  on  it  like  a  harp  of  a  thousand  strings.  I  ranged 
from  the  second  G  below  the  staff  up  to  F-sharp  above  it. 
I  set  my  voice  to  poetry,  art,  romance,  flowers,  and  moonlight. 
I  repeated  some  of  the  verses  that  I  had  murmured  to  her  in 
the  dark  at  her  window;  and  I  knew  from  a  sudden  soft 
sparkle  in  her  eye  that  she  recognized  in  my  voice  the  tones 
of  her  midnight  mysterious  wooer. 

"Anyhow,  I  had  Fergus  McMahan  going.  Oh,  the  vocal 
is  the  true  art  —  no  doubt  about  that.  Handsome  is  as  hand 
some  palavers.  That's  the  renovated  proverb. 

"I  took  Senorita  Anabela  for  a  walk  in  the  lemon  grove 
while  Fergus,  disfiguring  himself  with  an  ugly  frown,  was 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter"  69 

waltzing  with  the  claybank  girl.  Before  we  returned  I  had 
permission  to  come  to  her  window  in  the  patio  the  next  evening 
at  midnight  and  talk  some  more. 

"Oh,  it  was  easy  enough.  In  two  weeks  Anabela  was  en 
gaged  to  me,  and  Fergus  was  out.  He  took  it  calm,  for  a 
handsome  man,  and  told  me  he  wasn't  going  to  give  in. 

"  'Talk  may  be  all  right  in  its  place,  Judson/  he  says  to 
me,  'although  I've  never  thought  it  worth  cultivating.  But/ 
says  he,  'to  expect  mere  words  to  back  up  successfully  a  face 
like  yours  in  a  lady's  good  graces  is  like  expecting  a  man  to 
make  a  square  meal  on  the  ringing  of  a  dinner-bell/ 

"But  I  haven't  begun  on  the  story  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
yet. 

"One  day  I  took  a  long  ride  in  the  hot  sunshine,  and  then 
took  a  bath  in  the  cold  waters  of  a  lagoon  on  the  edge  of  the 
town  before  I'd  cooled  off. 

"That  evening  after  dark  I  called  at  the  alcalde's  to  see 
Anabela.  I  was  calling  regular  every  evening  then,  and  we 
Were  to  be  married  in  a  month.  She  was  looking  like  a  bulbul, 
a  gazelle,  and  a  tea-rose,  and  her  eyes  were  as  soft  and  bright 
as  two  quarts  of  cream  skimmed  off  from  the  Milky  Way. 
She  looked  at  my  rugged  features  without  any  expression  of 
fear  or  repugnance.  Indeed,  I  fancied  that  I  saw  a  look  of 
deep  admiration  and  affection,  such  as  she  had  cast  at  Fergus 
on  the  plaza. 

"I  sat  down,  and  opened  my  mouth  to  tell  Anabela  what  she 
loved  to  hear  —  that  she  was  a  trust,  monopolizing  all  the  love 
liness  of  earth.  I  opened  my  mouth,  and  instead  of  the  usual 
vibrating  words  of  love  and  compliment,  there  came  forth  a 
faint  wheeze  such  as  a  baby  with  croup  might  emit.  Not  a 
word  —  not  a  syllable  —  not  an  intelligible  sound.  I  had 
caught  cold  in  my  larygeal  regions  when  I  took  my  inju 
dicious  bath. 

"For  two  hours   I   sat  trying  to  entertain  Anabela.     She 


70  Roads  of  Destiny 

talked  a  certain  amount,  but  it  was  perfunctory  and  diluted. 
The  nearest  approach  I  made  to  speech  was  to  formulate  a 
sound  like  a  clam  trying  to  sing  'A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave* 
at  low  tide.  It  seemed  that  Anabela's  eyes  did  not  rest  upon 
me  as  of  ten  as  usual.  I  had  nothing  with  which  to  charm  her 
ears.  We  looked  at  pictures  and  she  played  the  guitar  occa 
sionally,  very  badly.  When  I  left,  her  parting  manner 
seemed  cool  —  or  at  least  thoughtful. 

"This  happened  for  five  evenings  consecutively. 

"On  the  sixth  day  she  ran  away  with  Fergus  McMahan. 

"It  was  known  that  they  fled  in  a  sailing  yacht  bound  for 
Belize.  I  was  only  eight  hours  behind  them  in  a  small  steam 
launch  belonging  to  the  Revenue  Department. 

"Before  I  sailed,  I  rushed  into  the  botica  of  old  Manuel 
Iquito,  a  half-breed  Indian  druggist.  I  could  not  speak,  but 
I  pointed  to  my  throat  and  made  a  sound  like  escaping  steam. 
He  began  to  yawn.  In  an  hour,  according  to  the  customs  of 
the  country,  I  would  have  been  waited  on.  I  reached  across 
the  counter,  seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  pointed  again  to 
my  own.  He  yawned  once  more,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  a 
small  bottle  containing  a  black  liquid. 

'  'Take  one  small  spoonful  every  two  hours/  says  he. 

"I  threw  him  a  dollar  and  skinned  for  the  steamer. 

"I  steamed  into  the  harbour  at  Belize  thirteen  seconds  be 
hind  the  yacht  that  Anabela  and  Fergus  were  on.  They 
started  for  the  shore  in  a  dory  just  as  my  skiff  was  lowered 
over  the  side.  I  tried  to  order  my  sailormen  to  row  faster, 
but  the  sounds  died  in  my  larynx  before  they  came  to  the 
light.  Then  I  thought  of  old  Iquito's  medicine,  and  I  got  out 
his  bottle  and  took  a  swallow  of  it. 

"The  two  boats  landed  at  the  same  moment.  I  walked 
straight  up  to  Anabela  and  Fergus.  Her  eyes  rested  upon 
me  for  an  instant;  then  she  turned  them,  full  of  feeling  and 
confidence,  upon  Fergus.  I  knew  I  could  not  speak,  but  I 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter'"  71 

#as  desperate.  In  speech  lay  my  only  hope.  I  could  not 
stand  beside  Fergus  and  challenge  comparison  an  the  way  of 
beauty.  Purely  involuntarily,  my  larynx  and  epiglottis  at 
tempted  to  reproduce  the  sounds  that  my  mind  was  calling 
upon  my  vocal  organs  to  send  forth. 

"To  my  intense  surprise  and  delight  the  words  rolled  forth 
beautifully  clear,  resonant,  exquisitely  modulated,  full  of 
power,  expression,  and  long-repressed  emotion. 

"  'Senorita  Anabela/  says  I,  'may  I  speak  with  you  aside 
for  a  moment?' 

"You  don't  want  details  about  that,  do  you?  Thanks. 
The  old  eloquence  had  come  back  all  right.  I  led  her  under  a 
cocoanut  palm  and  put  my  old  verbal  spell  on  her  again. 

"  'Judson/  says  she,  'when  you  are  talking  to  me  I  can 
hear  nothing  else  —  I  can  see  nothing  else  —  there  is  nothing 
and  nobody  else  in  the  world  for  me/ 

"Well,  that's  about  all  of  the  story.  Anabela  went  back 
to  Oratama  in  the  steamer  with  me.  I  never  heard  what  be 
came  of  Fergus.  I  never  saw  him  any  more.  Anabela  is  now 
Mrs.  Judson  Tate.  Has  my  story  bored  you  much?" 

"No,"  said  I.  "I  am  always  interested  in  psychological 
studies.  A  human  heart  —  and  especially  a  woman's  —  is  a 
wonderful  thing  to  contemplate." 

"It  is,"  said  Judson  Tate.  "And  so  are  the  trachea  and 
the  bronchial  tubes  of  man.  And  the  larynx,  too.  Did  you 
ever  make  a  study  of  the  windpipe?" 

"Never,"  said  I.  "But  I  have  taken  much  pleasure  in  your 
story.  May  I  ask  after  Mrs.  Tate,  and  inquire  of  her  pres 
ent  health  and  whereabouts?" 

"Oh,  sure,"  said  Judson  Tate.  "We  are  living  in  Bergen 
Avenue,  Jersey  City.  The  climate  down  in  Oratama  didn't 
suit  Mrs.  T.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  dissected  the  arytenoid 
cartilages  of  the  epiglottis,  did  you?" 

"Why,  no/'  said  I,  "I  am  no  surgeon." 


72  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Judson  Tate,  "but  every  man  should 
know  enough  of  anatomy  and  therapeutics  to  safeguard  his 
own  health.  A  sudden  cold  may  set  up  capillary  bronchitis 
or  inflammation  of  the  pulmonary  vesicles,  which  may  result  in 
a  serious  affection  of  the  vocal  organs." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  I,  with  some  impatience;  "but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  Speaking  of  the  strange  manifesta 
tions  of  the  affection  of  women,  I  —  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Judson  Tate,  "they  have  peculiar 
ways.  But,  as  I  was  going  to  tell  you:  when  I  went  back  to 
Oratama  I  found  out  from  Manuel  Iquito  what  was  in  that 
mixture  he  gave  me  for  my  lost  voice.  I  told  you  how  quick 
it  cured  me.  He  made  that  stuff  from  the  chuchula  plant. 
Now,  look  here." 

Judson  Tate  drew  an  oblong,  white  pasteboard  box  from 
his  pocket. 

"For  any  cough,"  he  said,  "or  cold,  or  hoarseness,  or  bron 
chial  affection  whatsoever,  I  have  here  the  greatest  remedy  in 
the  world.  You  see  the  formula  printed  on  the  box.  Each 
tablet  contains  licorice,  2  grains;  balsam  tolu,  %Q  grain;  oil 
of  anise,  %o  minim;  oil  of  tar,  %0  minim;  oleo-resin  of 
cubebs,  %o  minim;  fluid  extract  of  chuchula,  ^o  minim. 

"I  am  in  New  York,"  went  on  Judson  Tate,  "for  the  pur 
pose  of  organizing  a  company  to  market  the  greatest  remedy 
for  throat  affections  ever  discovered.  At  present  I  am  intro 
ducing  the  lozenges  in  a  small  way.  I  have  here  a  box  con 
taining  four  dozen,  which  I  am  selling  for  the  small  sum  of 
fifty  cents.  If  you  are  suffering  —  " 

I  got  up  and  went  away  without  a  word.  I  walked  slowly 
up  to  the  little  park  near  my  hotel,  leaving  Judson  Tate  alone 
with  his  conscience.  My  feelings  were ,  lacerated.  He  had 
^oured  gently  upon  me  a  story  that  I  might  have  used.  There 
was  a  little  of  the  breath  of  life  in  it,  and  some  of  the  syn- 


"Next  to  Reading  Matter"  73 

thetic  atmosphere  that  passes,  when  cunningly  tinkered,  in 
the  marts.  And,  at  the  last  it  had  proven  to  be  a  commer 
cial  pill,  deftly  coated  with  the  sugar  of  fiction.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  I  could  not  offer  it  for  sale.  Advertising  de 
partments  and  counting-rooms  look  down  upon  me.  And  it 
would  never  do  for  the  literary.  Therefore  I  sat  upon  a 
bench  with  other  disappointed  ones  until  my  eyelids  drooped. 

I  went  to  my  room,  and,  as  my  custom  is,  read  for  an  hour 
stories  in  my  favourite  magazines.  This  was  to  get  my  mind 
back  to  art  again. 

And  as  I  read  each  story,  I  threw  the  magazines  sadly  and 
hopelessly,  one  by  one,  upon  the  floor.  Each  author,  without 
one  exception  to  bring  balm  to  my  heart,  wrote  liltingly  and 
sprightly  a  story  of  some  particular  make  of  motor-car  that 
seemed  to  control  the  sparking  plug  of  his  genius. 

And  when  the  last  one  was  hurled  from  me  I  took  heart. 

"If  readers  can  swallow  so  many  proprietary  automobiles," 
I  said  to  myself,  "they  ought  not  to  strain  at  one  of  Tate's 
Compound  Magic  Chuchula  Bronchial  Lozenges." 

And  so  if  you  see  this  story  in  print  you  will  understand 
that  business  is  business,  and  that  if  Art  gets  very  far  ahead 
of  Commerce,  she  will  have  to  get  up  and  hustle. 

I  may  as  well  add,  to  make  a  clean  job  of  it,  that  you  can't 
buy  the  chuchula  plant  in  the  drug  stores. 


VI 

ART  AND  THE  BRONCO 

(JUT  of  the  wilderness  had  come  a  painter.  Genius,  whose 
coronations  alone  are  democratic,  had  woven  a  chaplet  of 
chaparral  for  the  brow  of  Lonny  Briscoe.  Art,  whose  divine 
expression  flows  impartially  from  the  fingertips  of  a  cowboy 
or  a  dilettante  emperor,  had  chosen  for  a  medium  the  Boy 
Artist  of  the  San  Saba.  The  outcome,  seven  feet  by  twelve 
of  besmeared  canvas,  stood,  gift-framed,  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Capitol. 

The  legislature  was  in  session;  the  capital  city  of  that  great 
Western  state  was  enjoying  the  season  of  activity  and  profit 
that  the  congregation  of  the  solons  bestowed.  The  boarding- 
houses  were  corralling  the  easy  dollars  of  the  gamesome  law 
makers.  The  greatest  state  in  the  West,  an  empire  in  area 
and  resources,  had  arisen  and  repudiated  the  old  libel  or  bar 
barism,  lawbreaking,  and  bloodshed.  Order  reigned  within 
her  borders.  Life  and  property  were  as  safe  there,  sir,  as 
anywhere  among  the  corrupt  cities  of  the  effete  East.  Pillow- 
shams,  churches,  strawberry  feasts  and  habeas  corpus  flour 
ished.  With  impunity  might  the  tenderfoot  ventilate  his 
"stovepipe"  or  his  theories  of  culture.  The  arts  and  sci 
ences  received  nurture  and  subsidy.  And,  therefore,  it  be 
hooved  the  legislature  of  this  great  state  to  make  appropriation 
for  the  purchase  of  Lonny  Briscoe's  immortal  painting. 

Rarely  has  the  San  Saba  country  contributed  to  the  spread 
of  the  fine  arts.  Its  sons  have  excelled  in  the  soldier  graces, 
in  the  throw  of  the  lariat,  the  manipulation  of  the  esteemed 

74 


Art  and  the  Bronco  75 

AS,  the  intrepidity  of  the  one-card  draw,  and  the  nocturnal 
stimulation  of  towns  from  undue  lethargy;  but,  hitherto,  it 
had  not  been  famed  as  a  stronghold  of  aesthetics.  Lonny 
Briscoe's  brush  had  removed  that  disability.  Here,  among  the 
limestone  rocks,  the  succulent  cactus,  and  the  drought-parched 
grass  of  that  arid  valley,  had  been  born  the  Boy  Artist.  Why 
he  came  to  woo  art  is  beyond  postulation.  Beyond  doubt, 
some  spore  of  the  afflatus  must  have  sprung  up  within  him  in 
spite  of  the  desert  soil  of  San  Saba.  The  tricksy  spirit  of 
creation  must  have  incited  him  to  attempted  expression  and 
then  have  sat  hilarious  among  the  white-hot  sands  of  the  valley, 
watching  its  mischievous  work.  For  Lonny's  picture,  viewed 
as  a  thing  of  art,  was  something  to  have  driven  away  dull  care 
from  the  bosoms  of  the  critics. 

The  painting  —  one  might  almost  say  panorama  —  was  de 
signed  to  portray  a  typical  Western  scene,  interest  culminating 
in  a  central  animal  figure,  that  of  a  stampeding  steer,  life-size, 
wild-eyed,  fiery,  breaking  away  in  a  mad  rush  from  the  herd 
that,  close-ridden  by  a  typical  cowpuncher,  occupied  a  position 
somewhat  in  the  right  background  of  the  picture.  The  land 
scape  presented  fitting  and  faithful  accessories.  Chaparral, 
mesquit,  and  pear  were  distributed  in  just  proportions.  A 
Spanish  dagger-plant,  with  its  waxen  blossoms  in  a  creamy 
aggregation  as  large  as  a  water-bucket,  contributed  floral 
beauty  and  variety.  The  distance  was  undulating  prairie,  bi 
sected  by  stretches  of  the  intermittent  streams  peculiar  to  the 
region  lined  with  the  rich  green  of  live-oak  and  water-elm, 
A  richly  mottled  rattlesnake  lay  coiled  beneath  a  pale  green 
clump  of  prickly  pear  in  the  foreground.  A  third  of  the  can 
vas  was  ultramarine  and  lake  white  —  the  typical  Western 
sky  and  the  flying  clouds,  rainless  and  feathery. 

Between  two  plastered  pillars  in  the  commodious  hallway 
near  the  door  of  the  chamber  of  representatives  stood  the 
painting.  Citizens  and  lawmakers  passed  there  by  twos  and 


76  Roads  of  Destiny 

groups  and  sometimes  crowds  to  gaze  upon  it.  Many  —  per 
haps  a  majority  of  them  —  had  lived  the  prairie  life  and  re 
called  easily  the  familiar  scene.  Old  cattlemen  stood,  reminis 
cent  and  candidly  pleased,  chatting  with  brothers  of  former 
camps  and  trails  of  the  days  it  brought  back  to  mind.  Art 
critics  were  few  in  the  town,  and  there  was  heard  none  of  that 
jargon  of  colour,  perspective,  and  feeling  such  as  the  East 
loves  to  use  as  a  curb  and  a  rod  to  the  pretensions  of  the  artist. 
'Twas  a  great  picture,  most  of  them  agreed,  admiring  the  gilt 
frame  —  larger  than  any  they  had  ever  seen. 

Senator  Kinney  was  the  picture's  champion  and  sponsor. 
It  was  he  who  so  often  stepped  forward  and  asserted,  with  the 
voice  of  a  bronco-buster,  that  it  would  be  a  lasting  blot,  sir, 
upon  the  name  of  this  great  state  if  it  should  decline  to 
recognize  in  a  proper  manner  the  genius  that  liad  so  bril 
liantly  transferred  to  imperishable  canvas  a  scene  so  typical 
of  the  great  sources  of  our  state's  wealth  and  prosperity,  land 
—  and  —  er  —  live-stock. 

Senator  Kinney  represented  a  section  of  the  state  in  the 
extreme  West  —  400  miles  from  the  San  Saba  country  —  but 
the  true  lover  of  art  is  not  limited  by  metes  and  bounds.  Nor 
was  Senator  Mullens,  representing  the  San  Saba  country,  luke 
warm  in  his  belief  that  the  state  should  purchase  the  painting 
of  his  constituent.  He  was  advised  that  the  San  Saba  country 
was  unanimous  in  its  admiration  of  the  great  painting  by  one 
of  its  own  denizens.  Hundreds  of  connoisseurs  had  straddled 
their  broncos  and  ridden  miles  to  view  it  before  its  removal 
to  the  capital.  Senator  Mullens  desired  reelection,  and  he 
knew  the  importance  of  the  San  Saba  vote.  He  also  knew  that 
with  the  help  of  Senator  Kinney  —  who  was  a  power  in  the 
legislature  —  the  thing  could  be  put  through.  Now,  Senator 
Kinney  had  an  irrigation  bill  that  he  wanted  passed  for  the 
benefit  of  his  own  section,  and  he  knew  Senator  Mullens  could 
render  him  valuable  aid  and  information,  the  San  Saba  country 


Art  and  the  Bronco  77 

already  enjoying  the  benefits  of  similar  legislation.  With 
these  interests  happily  dovetailed,  wonder  at  the  sudden  in^ 
terest  in  art  at  the  state  capital  must,  necessarily,  be  small. 
Few  artists  have  uncovered  their  first  picture  to  the  world 
under  happier  auspices  than  did  Lonny  Briscoe. 

Senators  Kinney  and  Mullens  came  to  an  understanding  in 
the  matter  of  irrigation  and  art  while  partaking  of  long  drinks 
in  the  cafe  of  the  Empire  Hotel. 

"H'm!"  said  Senator  Kinney,  "I  don't  know.  I'm  no  art 
critic,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  thing  won't  work.  It  looks  like 
the  worst  kind  of  a  chromo  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  cast  any 
reflections  upon  the  artistic  talent  of  your  constituent,  Senator, 
but  I,  myself,  wouldn't  give  six  bits  for  the  picture  —  without 
the  frame.  How  are  you  going  to  cram  a  thing  like  that  down 
the  throat  of  a  legislature  that  kicks  about  a  little  item  in  the 
expense  bill  of  six  hundred  and  eighty-one  dollars  for  rubber 
erasers  for  only  one  term?  It's  wasting  time.  I'd  like  to 
help  you,  Mullens,  but  they'd  laugh  us  out  of  the  Senate  cham 
ber  if  we  were  to  try  it." 

"But  you  don't  get  the  point,"  said  Senator  Mullens,  in  his 
deliberate  tones,  tapping  Kinney's  glass  with  his  long  fore 
finger.  "I  have  my  own  doubts  as  to  what  the  picture  is  in 
tended  to  represent,  a  bullfight  or  a  Japanese  allegory,  but 
I  want  this  legislature  to  make  an  appropriation  to  purchase. 
Of  course,  the  subject  of  the  picture  should  have  been  in  the 
state  historical  line,  but  it's  too  late  to  have  the  paint  scraped 
off  and  changed.  The  state  won't  miss  the  money  and  the 
picture  can  be  stowed  away  in  a  lumber-room  where  it  won't 
annoy  any  one.  Now,  here's  the  point  to  work  on,  leaving  art 
to  look  after  itself  —  the  chap  that  painted  the  picture  is  the 
grandson  of  Lucien  Briscoe." 

"Say  it  again,"  said  Kinney,  leaning  his  head  thoughtfully. 
"Of  the  old,  original  Lucien  Briscoe?" 

"Of   him.     'The    man    who,'    you    know.     The    man   who 


78  Roads  of  Destiny 

carved  the  state  out  of  the  wilderness.  The  man  who  settled 
the  Indians.  The  man  who  cleaned  out  the  horse  thieves. 
The  man  who  refused  the  crown.  The  state's  favourite  son. 
Do  you  see  the  point  now?" 

"Wrap  up  the  picture/'  said  Kinney.  "It's  as  good  as 
sold.  Why  didn't  you  say  that  at  first,  instead  of  philander 
ing  along  about  art.  I'll  resign  my  seat  in  the  Senate  and  go 
back  to  chain-carrying  for  the  county  surveyor  the  day  I  can't 
make  this  state  buy  a  picture  calcimined  by  a  grandson  of 
Lucien  Briscoe.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  special  appropria 
tion  for  the  purchase  of  a  home  for  the  daughter  of  One-Eyed 
Smothers  ?  Well,  that  went  through  like  a  motion  to  adj  ourn, 
and  old  One-Eyed  never  killed  half  as  many  Indians  as 
Briscoe  did.  About  what  figure  had  you  and  the  calciminer 
agreed  upon  to  sandbag  the  treasury  for?" 

"I  thought,"  said  Mullens,  "that  maybe  five  hundred  —  " 
"Five  hundred !"  interrupted  Kinney,  as  he  hammered  on 
his  glass  for  a  lead  pencil  and  looked  around  for  a  waiter. 
"Only  five  hundred  for  a  red  steer  on  the  hoof  delivered  by  a 
grandson  of  Lucien  Briscoe!  Where's  your  state  pride,  man? 
Two  thousand  is  what  it'll  be.  You'll  introduce  the  bill  and 
I'll  get  up  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate  and  wave  the  scalp  of 
every  Indian  old  Lucien  ever  murdered.  Let's  see,  there  was 
something  else  proud  and  foolish  he  did,  wasn't  there?  Oh, 
yes;  he  declined  all  emoluments  and  benefits  he  was  entitled 
to.  Refused  his  head-right  and  veteran  donation  certificates. 
Could  have  been  governor,  but  wouldn't.  Declined  a  pension. 
Now's  the  state's  chance  to  pay  up.  It'll  have  to  take  the  pic 
ture,  but  then  it  deserves  some  punishment  for  keeping  the 
Briscoe  family  waiting  so  long.  We'll  bring  this  thing  up 
about  the  middle  of  the  month,  after  the  tax  bill  is  settled. 
Now,  Mullens,  you  send  over,  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  get  me 
the  figures  on  the  cost  of  those  irrigation  ditches  and  the 
statistics  about  the  increased  production  per  acre.  I'm  going 


Art  and  the  Bronco  79 

to  need  you  when  that  bill  of  mine  comes  up.  I  reckon  we'll 
be  able  to  pull  along  pretty  well  together  this  session  and 
maybe  others  to  come,  eh,  Senator?" 

Thus  did  fortune  elect  to  smile  upon  the  Boy  Artist  of  the 
San  Saba.  Fate  had  already  done  her  share  when  she.  ar 
ranged  his  atoms  in  the  cosmogony  of  creation  as  the  grandson 
of  Lucien  Briscoe. 

The  original  Briscoe  had  been  a  pioneer  both  as  to  territorial 
occupation  and  in  certain  acts  prompted  by  a  great  and  simple 
heart.  He  had  been  one  of  the  first  settlers  and  crusaders 
against  the  wild  forces  of  nature,  the  savage  and  the  shallow 
politician.  His  name  and  memory  were  revered  equally  with 
any  upon  the  list  comprising  Houston,  Boone,  Crockett,  Clark, 
and  Green.  He  had  lived  simply,  independently,  and  unvexed 
by  ambition.  Even  a  less  shrewd  man  than  Senator  Kinney 
could  have  prophesied  that  his  state  would  hasten  to  honour 
and  reward  his  grandson,  come  out  of  the  chaparral  at  even  so 
late  a  day. 

And  so,  before  the  great  picture  by  the  door  of  the  cham 
ber  of  representatives  at  frequent  times  for  many  days  could 
be  found  the  breezy,  robust  form  of  Senator  Kinney  and  be 
heard  his  clarion  voice  reciting  the  past  deeds  of  Lucien  Briscoe 
in  connection  with  the  handiwork  of  his  grandson.  Senator 
Mullens's  work  was  more  subdued  in  S-^ht  and  sound,  but  di 
rected  along  identical  lines. 

Then,  as  the  day  for  the  introduction  of  the  bill  for  ap 
propriation  draws  nigh,  up  from  the  San  Saba  country  rides 
Lonny  Briscoe  and  a  loyal  lobby  of  cowpunchers,  bronco- 
back,  to  boost  the  cause  of  art  and  glorify  the  name  of  friend 
ship,  for  Lonny  is  one  of  them,  a  knight  of  stirrup  and 
chaparreras,  as  handy  with  the  lariat  and  .45  as  he  is  with 
brush  and  palette. 

On  a  March  afternoon  the  lobby  dashed,  with  a  whoop,  into 
town.  The  cowpunchers  had  adjusted  their  garb  suitable 


80  Roads  of  Destiny 

from  that  prescribed  for  the  range  to  the  more  conventional 
requirements  of  town.  They  had  conceded  their  leather  cha- 
parreras  and  transferred  their  six-shooters  and  belts  from  their 
persons  to  the  horns  of  their  saddles.  Among  them  rode 
Lonny,  a  youth  of  twenty-three,  brown,  solemn-faced,  ingen 
uous,  bowlegged,  reticent,  bestriding  Hot  Tamales,  the  most 
sagacious  cow  pony  west  of  the  Mississippi.  Senator  Mullens 
had  informed  him  of  the  bright  prospects  of  the  situation ;  had 
even  mentioned  —  so  great  was  his  confidence  in  the  capable 
Kinney  —  the  price  that  the  state  would,  in  all  likelihood,  pay. 
It  seemed  to  Lonny  that  fame  and  fortune  were  in  his  hands. 
Certainly,  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire  was  in  the  little  brown 
centaur's  breast,  for  he  was  counting  the  two  thousand  dol 
lars  as  but  a  means  to  future  development  of  his  talent.  Some 
day  he  would  paint  a  picture  even  greater  than  this  —  one,  say, 
twelve  feet  by  twenty,  full  of  scope  and  atmosphere  and  action. 

During  the  three  days  that  yet  intervened  before  the  com 
ing  of  the  date  fixed  for  the  introduction  of  the  bill,  the 
centaur  lobby  did  valiant  service.  Coatless,  spurred,  weather- 
tanned,  full  of  enthusiasm  expressed  in  bizarre  terms,  they 
loafed  in  front  of  the  painting  with  tireless  zeal.  Reasoning 
not  unshrewdly,  they  estimated  that  their  comments  upon  its 
fidelity  to  nature  would  be  received  as  expert  evidence. 
Loudly  they  praised  the  skill  of  the  painter  whenever  there 
were  ears  near  to  which  such  evidence  might  be  profitably 
addressed.  Lem  Perry,  the  leader  of  the  claque,  had  a  some 
what  set  speech,  being  uninventive  in  the  construction  of  new 
phrases. 

"Look  at  that  two-year-old,  now,"  he  would  say,  waving  a 
cinnamon-brown  hand  toward  the  salient  point  of  the  picture. 
"Why,  dang  my  hide,  the  critter's  alive.  I  can  jest  hear  him, 
'lumpety-lump/  a-cuttin'  away  from  the  herd,  pretendin'  he's 
skeered.  He's  a  mean  scamp,  that  there  steer.  Look  at  his 
eyes  a-wallin'  and  his  tail  a-wavin'.  He's  true  and  nat'ral  to 


Art  and  the  Bronco  81 

life.  He's  jest  hankerin'  fur  a  cow  pony  to  round  him  up 
and  send  him  scootin'  back  to  the  bunch.  Dang  my  hide! 
jest  look  at  that  tail  of  his'n  a-wavin'.  Never  knowed  a  steer 
to  wave  his  tail  any  other  way,  dang  my  hide  ef  I  did." 

Jud  Shelby,  while  admitting  the  excellence  of  the  steer, 
resolutely  confined  himself  to  open  admiration  of  the  land 
scape,  to  the  end  that  the  entire  picture  receive  its  meed  of 
praise. 

"That  piece  of  range,"  he  declared,  "is  a  dead  ringer  for 
Dead  Hoss  Valley.  Same  grass,  same  lay  of  the  land,  same 
old  Whipperwill  Creek  skallyhootin'  in  and  out  of  them  motts 
of  timber.  Them  buzzards  on  the  left  is  circlin'  'round  over 
Sam  Kildrake's  old  paint  hoss  that  killed  hisself  over-drinkin' 
on  a  hot  day.  You  can't  see  the  hoss  for  that  mott  of  ellums 
on  the  creek,  but  he's  thar.  Anybody  that  was  goin'  to  look 
for  Dead  Hoss  Valley  and  come  across  this  picture,  why,  he'd 
jest  light  off'n  his  bronco  and  hunt  a  place  to  camp." 

Skinny  Rogers,  wedded  to  comedy,  conceived  a  complimen 
tary  little  piece  of  acting  that  never  failed  to  make  an  impres 
sion.  Edging  quite  near  to  the  picture,  he  would  suddenly, 
at  favourable  moments  emit  a  piercing  and  awful  "Yi-yi!" 
leap  high  and  away,  coming  down  with  a  great  stamp  of 
heels  and  whirring  of  rowels  upon  the  stone-flagged  floor. 

" Jeeming  Christopher !"  —  so  ran  his  lines  —  "thought  that 
rattler  was  a  gin-u-ine  one.  Ding  baste  my  skin  if  I  didn't. 
Seemed  to  me  I  heard  him  rattle.  Look  at  the  blamed,  un 
converted  insect  a-layin'  under  that  pear.  Little  more,  and 
somebody  would  a-been  snake-bit." 

With  these  artful  dodges,  contributed  by  Lonny's  faithful 
coterie,  with  the  sonorous  Kinney  perpetually  sounding  the  pic 
ture's  merits,  and  with  the  solvent  prestige  of  the  pioneer 
Briscoe  covering  it  like  a  precious  varnish,  it  seemed  that  the 
San  Saba  country  could  not  fail  to  add  a  reputation  as  an  art 
centre  to  its  well-known  superiority  in  steer-roping  contests 


82  Roads  of  Destiny 

and  achievements  with  the  precarious  busted  flush.  Thus  was 
created  for  the  picture  an  atmosphere,  due  rather  to  externals 
than  to  the  artist's  brush,  but  through  it  the  people  seemed 
to  gaze  with  more  of  admiration.  There  was  a  magic  in  the 
name  of  Briscoe  that  counted  high  against  faulty  technique 
and  crude  colouring.  The  old  Indian  fighter  and  wolf  slayer 
would  have  smiled  grimly  in  his  happy  hunting  grounds  had 
he  known  that  his  dilettante  ghost  was  thus  figuring  as  an  art 
patron  two  generations  after  his  uninspired  existence. 

Came  the  day  when  the  Senate  was  expected  to  pass  the 
bill  of  Senator  Mullens  appropriating  two  thousand  dollars 
for  the  purchase  of  the  picture.  The  gallery  of  the  Senate 
chamber  was  early  preempted  by  Lonny  and  the  San  Saba 
lobby.  In  the  front  row  of  chairs  they  sat,  wild-haired,  self- 
conscious,  jingling,  creaking,  and  rattling,  subdued  by  the 
majesty  of  the  council  hall. 

The  bill  was  introduced,  went  to  the  second  reading,  and 
then  Senator  Mullens  spoke  for  it  dryly,  tediously,  and  at 
length.  Senator  Kinney  then  arose,  and  the  welkin  seized  the 
bellrope  preparatory  to  ringing.  Oratory  was  at  that  time 
a  living  thing;  the  world  had  not  quite  come  to  measure  its 
questions  by  geometry  and  the  multiplication  table.  It  was 
the  day  of  the  silver  tongue,  the  sweeping  gesture,  the  decora 
tive  apostrophe,  the  moving  peroration. 

The  Senator  spoke.  The  San  Saba  contingent  sat,  breath 
ing  hard,  in  the  gallery,  its  disordered  hair  hanging  down 
to  its  eyes,  its  sixteen-ounce  hats  shifted  restlessly  from  knee 
to  knee.  Below,  the  distinguished  Senators  either  lounged  at 
their  desks  with  the  abandon  of  proven  statesmanship  or  main 
tained  correct  attitudes  indicative  of  a  first  term. 

Senator  Kinney  spoke  for  an  hour.  History  was  his  theme 
—  history  mitigated  by  patriotism  and  sentiment.  He  referred 
casually  to  the  picture  in  the  outer  hall  —  it  was  unnecessary, 
he  said,  to  dilate  upon  its  merits  —  the  Senators  had  seen  for 


Art  and  the  Bronco  83 

themselves.  The  painter  of  the  picture  was  the  grandson 
of  Lucien  Briscoe.  Then  came  the  word-pictures  of  Briscoe's 
life  set  forth  in  thrilling  colours.  His  rude  and  venturesome 
life,  his  simple-minded  love  for  the  commonwealth  he  helped 
to  upbuild,  his  contempt  for  rewards  and  praise,  his  extreme 
and  sturdy  independence,  and  the  great  services  he  had  ren 
dered  the  state.  The  subject  of  the  oration  was  Lucien  Bris 
coe;  the  painting  stood  in  the  background  serving  simply  as 
a  means,  now  happily  brought  forward,  through  which  the 
state  might  bestow  a  tardy  recompense  upon  the  descendant 
of  its  favourite  son.  Frequent  enthusiastic  applause  from  the 
Senators  testified  to  the  well  reception  of  the  sentiment. 

The  bill  passed  without  an  opposing  vote.  To-morrow  it 
would  be  taken  up  by  the  House.  Already  was  it  fixed  to 
glide  through  that  body  on  rubber  tires.  Blandford,  Gray- 
son,  and  Plummer,  all  wheel-horses  and  orators,  and  provided 
with  plentiful  memoranda  concerning  the  deeds  of  pioneer 
Briscoe.  had  arreed  to  furnish  the  motive  power. 

The  San  Saba  lobby  and  its  pro  ege  stumbled  awkwardly 
down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  Capitol  yard.  Then  they 
herded  closely  and  gave  one  yell  of  triumph.  But  one  of 
them  —  Buck-Kneed  Summers  it  was  —  hit  the  key  with  the 
thoughtful  remark: 

"She  cut  the  mustard,"  he  said,  "all  right.  I  reckon 
they're  goin'  to  buy  Lon's  steer.  I  ain't  right  much  on  the 
parlyment'ry,  but  I  gather  that's  what  the  signs  added  up. 
But  she  seems  to  me,  Lonny,  the  argyment  ran  principal  to 
grandfather,  instead  of  paint.  It's  reasonable  calculatin'  that 
you  want  to  be  glad  you  got  the  Briscoe  brand  on  you,  my 
son." 

That  remark  clinched  in  Lonny's  mind  an  unpleasant,  vague 
suspicion  to  the  same  effect.  His  reticence  increased,  and  he 
gathered  grass  from  the  ground,  chewing  it  pensively.  The 
picture  as  a  picture  had  been  humiliatingly  absent  from  the 


84  Roads  of  Destiny 

Senator's  arguments.  The  painter  had  been  held  up  as  a 
grandson,  pure  and  simple.  While  this  was  gratifying  on  cer 
tain  lines,  it  made  art  look  little  and  slab-sided.  The  Boy 
Artist  was  thinking. 

The  hotel  Lonny  stopped  at  was  near  the  Capitol.  It  was 
near  to  the  one  o'clock  dinner  hour  when  the  appropriation 
had  been  passed  by  the  Senate.  The  hotel  clerk  told  Lonny 
that  a  famous  artist  from  New  York  had  arrived  in  town  that 
day  and  was  in  the  hotel.  He  was  on  his  way  westward  to 
New  Mexico  to  study  the  effect  of  sunlight  upon  the  ancient 
walls  of  the  Zunis.  Modern  stone  reflects  light.  Those  an 
cient  building  materials  absorb  it.  The  artist  wanted  this  ef 
fect  in  a  picture  he  was  painting  and  was  traveling  two  thou 
sand  miles  to  get  it. 

Loony  sought  this  man  out  after  dinner  and  told  his  story. 
The  artist  was  an  unhealthy  man,  kept  alive  by  genius  and  in 
difference  to  life.  He  went  with  Lonny  to  the  Capitol  and 
stood  there  before  the  picture.  The  artist  pulled  his  beard 
and  looked  unhappy. 

"Should  like  to  have  your  sentiments/'  said  Lonny,  "just 
as  they  run  out  of  the  pen." 

"It's  the  way  they'll  come,"  said  the  painter  man.  "I 
took  three  different  kinds  of  medicine  before  dinner  —  by  the 
tablespoonful.  The  taste  still  lingers.  I  am  primed  for  tell 
ing  the  truth.  You  want  to  know  if  the  picture  is,  or  if  it 
isn't?" 

"Right,"  said  Lonny.  "Is  it  wool  or  cotton?  Should  I 
paint  some  more  or  cut  it  out  and  ride  herd  a-plenty?" 

"I  heard  a  rumour  during  pie,"  said  the  artist,  "that  the 
state  is  about  to  pay  you  two  thousand  dollars  for  this  picture." 

"It's  passed  the  Senate,"  said  Lonny,  "and  the  House 
rounds  it  up  to-morrow." 

"That's  lucky,"  said  the  pale  man.  "Do  you  carry  a  rab 
bit's  foot?" 


Art  and  the  Bronco  85 

"No/'  said  Lon  ly,  "but  it  seems  I  had  a  grandfather. 
He's  considerable  mixed  up  in  the  colour  scheme.  It  took 
me  a  year  to  paint  that  picture.  Is  she  entirely  awful  or  not  ? 
Some  says,  now,  that  that  steer's  tail  ain't  badly  drawed. 
They  think  it's  proportioned  nice.  Tell  me." 

The  artist  glanced  at  Lonny's  wiry  figure  and  nut-brown 
skin.  Something  stirred  him  to  a  passing  irritation. 

"For  Art's  sake,  son,"  he  said,  fractiously,  "don't  spend 
any  more  money  for  paint.  It  isn't  a  picture  at  all.  It's  a 
gun.  You  hold  up  the  state  with  it,  if  you  like,  and  get  your 
two  thousand,  but  don't  get  in  front  of  any  more  canvas.  Live 
under  it.  Buy  a  couple  of  hundred  ponies  with  the  money  — 
I'm  told  they're  that  cheap  —  and  ride,  ride,  ride.  Fill  your 
lungs  and  eat  and  sleep  and  be  happy.  No  more  pictures. 
You  look  healthy.  That's  genius.  Cultivate  it."  He  looked 
at  his  watch.  "Twenty  minutes  to  three.  Four  capsules  and 
one  tablet  at  three.  That's  all  you  wanted  to  know,  isn't 
it?" 

At  three  o'clock  the  cowpunchers  rode  up  for  Lonny,  bring 
ing  Hot  Tamales,  saddled.  Traditions  must  be  observed.  To 
celebrate  the  passage  of  the  bill  by  the  Senate  the  gang  must 
ride  wildly  through  the  town,  creating  uproar  and  excitement. 
Liquor  must  be  partaken  of,  the  suburbs  shot  up,  and  the 
glory  of  the  San  Saba  country  vociferously  proclaimed.  A 
part  of  the  programme  had  been  carried  out  in  the  saloons  on 
the  way  up. 

Lonny  mounted  Hot  Tamales,  the  accomplished  little  beast 
prancing  with  fire  and  intelligence.  He  was  glad  to  feel 
Lonny's  bowlegged  grip  against  his  ribs  again.  Lonny  was 
his  friend,  and  he  was  willing  to  do  things  for  him. 

"Come  on,  boys,"  said  Lonny,  urging  Hot  Tamales  into 
a  gallop  with  his  knees.  With  a  whoop,  the  inspired  lobby 
tore  after  him  through  the  dust.  Lonny  led  his  cohorts 
straight  for  the  Capitol.  With  a  wild  yell,  the  gang  indorsed 


8(5  Roads  of  Destiny 

his  now  evident  intention  of  riding  into  it.  Hooray  for  Saa 
Saba! 

Up  the  six  broad,  limestone  steps  clattered  the  broncos  of 
the  cowpunchers.  Into  the  resounding  hallway  they  pattered, 
scattering  in  dismay  those  passing  on  foot.  Lonny,  in  the 
lead,  shoved  Hot  Tamales  direct  for  the  great  picture.  At  that 
hour  a  downpouring,  soft  light  from  the  second-story  windows 
bathed  the  big  canvas.  Against  the  darker  background  of  the 
hall  the  painting  stood  out  with  valuable  effect.  In  spite  of 
the  defects  of  the  art  you  could  almost  fancy  that  you  gazed 
out  upon  a  landscape.  You  might  well  flinch  a  step  from  the 
convincing  figure  of  the  life-sized  steer  stampeding  across  the 
grass.  Perhaps  it  thus  seemed  to  Hot  Tamales.  The  scene 
was  in  his  line.  Perhaps  he  only  obeyed  the  will  of  his  rider. 
His  ears  pricked  up;  he  snorted.  Lonny  leaned  forward  in 
the  saddle  and  elevated  his  elbows,  wing-like.  Thus  signals 
the  cowpuncher  to  his  steed  to  launch  himself  full  speed  ahead. 
Did  Hot  Tamales  fancy  he  saw  a  steer,  red  and  cavorting,  that 
should  be  headed  off  and  driven  back  to  herd?  There  was 
a  fierce  clatter  of  hoofs,  a  rush,  a  gathering  of  steely  flank 
muscles,  a  leap  to  the  jerk  of  the  bridle  rein,  and  Hot  Tamales, 
with  Lonny  bending  low  in  the  saddle  to  dodge  the  top  of  the 
frame,  ripped  through  the  great  canvas  like  a  shell  from  a 
mortar,  leaving  the  cloth  hanging  in  ragged  shreds  about  a 
monstrous  hole. 

Quickly  Lonny  pulled  up  his  pony,  and  rounded  the  pillars. 
Spectators  came  running,  too  astounded  to  add  speech  to  the 
commotion.  The  sergeant-at-arms  of  the  House  came  forth, 
frowned,  looked  ominous,  and  then  grinned.  Many  of  the 
legislators  crowded  out  to  observe  the  tumult.  Lonny's  cow- 
punchers  were  stricken  to  silent  horror  by  his  mad  deed. 

Senator  Kinney  happened  to  be  among  the  earliest  to 
emerge.  Before  he  could  speak  Lonny  leaned  in  his  saddle 


Art  and  the  Bronco  87 

as  Hot  Tamales  pranced,  pointed  his  quirt  at  the  Senator, 
and  said,  calmly: 

"That  was  a  fine  speech  you  made  to-day,  mister,  but  you 
might  as  well  let  up  on  that  'propriation  business.  I  ain't 
askin'  the  state  to  give  me  nothin'.  I  thought  I  had  a  picture 
to  sell  to  it,  but  it  wasn't  one.  You  said  a  heap  of  things 
about  Grandfather  Briscoe  that  makes  me  kind  of  proud  I'm 
his  grandson.  Well,  the  Briscoes  ain't  takin'  presents  from 
the  state  yet.  Anybody  can  have  the  frame  that  wants  it. 
Hit  her  up,  boys." 

Away  scuttled  the  San  Saba  delegation  out  of  the  hall,  down 
the  steps,  along  the  dusty  street. 

Halfway  to  the  San  Saba  country  they  camped  that  night. 
At  bedtime  Lonny  stole  away  from  the  campfire  and  sought 
Hot  Tamales,  placidly  eating  grass  at  the  end  of  his  stake 
rope.  Lonny  hung  upon  his  neck,  and  his  art  aspirations 
went  forth  forever  in  one  long,  regretful  sigh.  But  as  he  thus 
made  renunciation  his  breath  formed  a  word  or  two. 

"You  was  the  only  one,  Tamales,  what  seen  anything  in 
it.  It  did  look  like  a  sieer,  didn't  it,  old  hoss?" 


VII 
PHOEBE 

lOU  are  a  man  of  many  novel  adventures  and  varied  enter 
prises,"  I  said  to  Captain  Patricio  Malone.  "Do  you  believe 
that  the  possible  element  of  good  luck  or  bad  luck  —  if  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  luck  —  has  influenced  your  career  or  per 
sisted  for  or  against  you  to  such  an  extent  that  you  were 
forced  to  attribute  results  to  the  operation  of  the  aforesaid 
good  luck  or  bad  luck?" 

This  question  (of  almost  the  dull  insolence  of  legal  phrase 
ology)  was  put  while  we  sat  in  Rousselin's  little  red-tiled  cafe 
near  Congo  Square  in  New  Orleans. 

Brown-faced,  white-hatted,  finger-ringed  captains  of  adven 
ture  came  often  to  Rousselin's  for  the  cognac.  They  came 
from  sea  and  land,  and  were  chary  of  relating  the  things  they 
had  seen  —  not  because  they  were  more  wonderful  than  the 
fantasies  of  the  Ananiases  of  print,  but  because  they  were  so 
different.  And  I  was  a  perpetual  wedding-guest,  always  striv 
ing  to  cast  my  buttonhole  over  the  finger  of  one  of  these 
mariners  of  fortune.  This  Captain  Malone  was  a  Hiberno- 
Iberian  Creole  who  had  gone  to  and  fro  in  the  earth  and 
walked  up  and  down  in  it.  He  looked  like  any  other  well- 
dressed  man  of  thirty-five  whom  you  might  meet,  except  that 
he  was  hopelessly  weather-tanned,  and  wore  on  his  chain  an 
ancient  ivory-and-gold  Peruvian  charm  against  evil,  which  has 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  his  story. 

88 


Phcebe  89 

"My  answer  to  your  question/'  said  the  captain,  smiling, 
"will  be  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Bad-Luck  Kearny.  That 
is,  if  you  don't  mind  hearing  it." 

My  reply  was  to  pound  on  the  table  for  Rousselin. 

"Strolling  along  Tchoupitoulas  Street  one  night/'  began 
Captain  Malone,  "I  noticed,  without  especially  taxing  my  in 
terest,  a  small  man  walking  rapidly  toward  me.  He  stepped 
upon  a  wooden  cellar  door,  crashed  through  it,  and  disap 
peared.  I  rescued  him  from  a  heap  of  soft  coal  below.  He 
dusted  himself  briskly,  swearing  fluently  in  a  mechanical 
tone,  as  an  underpaid  actor  recites  the  gipsy's  curse.  Grati 
tude  and  the  dust  in  his  throat  seemed  to  call  for  fluids  to 
clear  them  away.  His  desire  for  liquidation  was  expressed  so 
heartily  that  I  went  with  him  to  a  cafe  down  the  street 
where  we  had  some  vile  vermouth  and  bitters. 

"Looking  across  that  little  table  I  had  my  first  clear  sight 
of  Francis  Kearny.  He  was  about  five  feet  seven,  but  as 
tough  as  a  cypress  knee.  His  hair  was  darkest  red,  his  mouth 
such  a  mere  slit  that  you  wondered  how  the  flood  of  his  words 
came  rushing  from  it.  His  eyes  were  the  brightest  and  light 
est  blue  and  the  hopefulest  that  I  ever  saw.  He  gave  the 
double  impression  that  he  was  at  bay  and  that  you  had  better 
not  crowd  him  further. 

"  'Just  in  from  a  gold-hunting  expedition  on  the  coast  of 
Costa  Rica/  he  explained.  'Second  mate  of  a  banana 
steamer  told  me  the  natives  were  panning  out  enough  from 
the  beach  sands  to  buy  all  the  rum,  red  calico,  and  parlour 
melodeons  in  the  world.  The  day  I  got  there  a  syndicate 
named  Incorporated  Jones  gets  a  government  concession  to  all 
minerals  from  a  given  point.  For  a  next  choice  I  take  coast 
fever  and  count  green  and  blue  lizards  for  six  weeks  in  a 
grass  hut.  I  had  to  be  notified  when  I  was  well,  for  the  rep 
tiles  were  actually  there.  Then  I  shipped  back  as  third  cook 
on  a  Norwegian  tramp  that  blew  up  her  boiler  two  miles  below 


90  Roads  of  Destiny 

Quarantine.  I  was  due  to  bust  through  that  cellar  door  here 
to-night,  so  I  hurried  the  rest  of  the  way  up  the  river,  rousta 
bouting  on  a  lower  coast  packet  that  made  a  landing  for  every 
fisherman  that  wanted  a  plug  of  tobacco.  And  now  I'm  here 
for  what  comes  next.  And  it'll  be  along,  it'll  be  along,'  said 
this  queer  Mr.  Kearny;  'it'll  be  along  on  the  beams  of  my 
bright  but  not  very  particular  star.' 

"From  the  first  the  personality  of  Kearny  charmed  me. 
I  saw  in  him  the  bold  heart,  the  restless  nature,  and  the  valiant 
front  against  the  buffets  of  fate  that  make  his  countrymen 
such  valuable  comrades  in  risk  and  adventure.  And  just  then 
I  was  wanting  such  men.  Moored  at  a  fruit  company's  pier 
I  had  a  500-ton  steamer  ready  to  sail  the  next  day  with  a 
cargo  of  sugar,  lumber,  and  corrugated  iron  for  a  port  in  — 
well,  let  us  call  the  country  Esperando  —  it  has  not  been  long 
ago,  and  the  name  of  Patricio  Malone  is  still  spoken  there 
when  its  unsettled  politics  are  discussed.  Beneath  the  sugar 
and  iron  were  packed  a  thousand  Winchester  rifles.  In  Aguas 
Frias,  the  capital,  Don  Rafael  Valdevia,  Minister  of  War,  Es- 
perando's  greatest-hearted  and  most  able  patriot,  awaited  my 
coming.  No  doubt  you  have  heard,  with  a  smile,  of  the  insig 
nificant  wars  and  uprisings  in  those  little  tr^:c  republics. 
They  make  but  a  faint  clamour  against  the  din  of  great  na 
tions'  battles;  but  down  there,  under  all  the  ridiculous  uni 
forms  and  petty  diplomacy  and  senseless  countermarching  and 
intrigue,  are  to  be  found  statesmen  and  patriots.  Don  Rafael 
Valdevia  was  one.  His  great  ambition  was  to  raise  Esperando 
into  peace  and  honest  prosperity  and  the  respect  of  the  serious 
nations.  So  he  waited  for  my  rifles  in  Aguas  Frias.  But 
one  would  think  I  am  trying  to  win  a  recruit  in  you!  No; 
it  was  Francis  Kearny  I  wanted.  And  so  I  told  him,  speak 
ing  long  over  our  execrable  vermouth,  breathing  the  stifling 
odour  from  garlic  and  tarpaulins,  which,  as  you  know,  is  the 
distinctive  flavour  of  cafes  in  the  lower  slant  of  our  city.  I 


Phcebe  91 

spoke  of  the  tyrant  President  Cruz  and  the  burdens  that  his 
greed  and  insolent  cruelty  laid  upon  the  people.  And  at  that 
Kearny's  tears  flowed.  And  then  I  dried  them  with  a  picture 
of  the  fat  rewards  that  would  be  ours  when  the  oppressor 
should  be  overthrown  and  the  wise  and  generous  Valdevia  in 
his  seat.  Then  Kearny  leaped  to  his  feet  and  wrung  my 
hand  with  the  strength  of  a  roustabout.  He  was  mine,  he 
said,  till  the  last  minion  of  the  hated  despot  was  hurled  from 
the  highest  peaks  of  the  Cordilleras  into  the  sea. 

"I  paid  the  score  and  we  went  out.  Near  the  door  Kear 
ny's  elbow  overturned  an  upright  glass  showcase,  smashing 
it  into  little  bits.  I  paid  the  storekeeper  the  price  he  asked. 

"  'Come  to  my  hotel  for  the  night.'  I  said  to  Kearny.  'We 
sail  to-morrow  at  noon.' 

"He  agreed;  but  on  the  sidewalk  he  fell  to  cursing  again 
in  the  dull,  monotonous,  glib  way  that  he  had  done  when  I 
pulled  him  out  of  the  coal  cellar. 

"  'Captain,'  said  he,  'before  we  go  any  further,  it's  no  more 
than  fair  to  tell  you  that  I'm  known  from  Baffin's  Bay  to  Terra 
del  Fuego  as  "Bad-Luck"  Kearny.  And  I'm  It.  Every 
thing  I  get  into  goes  up  in  the  air  except  a  balloon.  Every  bet 
I  ever  made  I  lost  except  when  I  coppered  it.  Every  boat  I 
ever  sailed  on  sank  except  the  submarines.  Everything  I  was 
ever  interested  in  went  to  pieces  except  a  patent  bombshell 
that  I  invented.  Everything  I  ever  took  hold  of  and  tried  to 
run  I  ran  into  the  ground  except  when  I  tried  to  plough.  And 
that's  why  they  call  me  Bad-Luck  Kearny.  I  thought  I'd 
tell  you/ 

"  'Bad  luck/  said  I,  'or  what  goes  by  the  name,  may  now 
and  then  tangle  the  affairs  of  any  man.  But  if  it  persist  be 
yond  the  estimate  of  what  we  may  call  the  "averages"  there 
must  be  a  cause  for  it/ 

'  'There  is,'  said  Kearny  emphatically,  'and  when  we  walk 
another  square  I  will  show  it  to  you/ 


92  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Surprised,  I  kept  by  his  side  until  we  came  to  Canal  Street 
and  out  into  the  middle  of  its  great  width. 

"Kearny  seized  me  by  an  arm  and  pointed  a  tragic  fore 
finger  at  a  rather  brilliant  star  that  shone  steadily  about  thirty 
degrees  above  the  horizon. 

'  'That's  Saturn/  said  he,  'the  star  that  presides  over  bad 
luck  and  evil  and  disappointment  and  nothing  doing  and  trou 
ble.  I  was  born  under  that  star.  Every  move  I  make,  up 
bobs  Saturn  and  blocks  it.  He's  the  hoodoo  planet  of  the 
heavens.  They  say  he's  73,000  miles  in  diameter  and  no 
solider  of  body  than  split-pea  soup,  and  he's  got  as  many 
disreputable  and  malignant  rings  as  Chicago.  Now,  what 
kind  of  a  star  is  that  to  be  born  under?' 

"I  asked  Kearny  where  he  had  obtained  all  this  astonish 
ing  knowledge. 

"  'From  Azrath,  the  great  astrologer  of  Cleveland.  Ohio,' 
said  he.  'That  man  looked  at  a  glass  ball  and  told  me  my 
name  before  I'd  taken  a  chair.  He  prophesied  the  date  of 
my  birth  and  death  before  I'd  said  a  word.  And  then  he 
cast  my  horoscope,  and  the  sidereal  system  socked  me  in  the 
solar  plexus.  It  was  bad  luck  for  Francis  Kearny  from  A 
to  Izard  and  for  his  friends  that  were  implicated  with  him. 
For  that  I  gave  up  ten  dollars.  This  Azrath  was  sorry,  but 
he  respected  his  profession  too  much  to  read  the  heavens  wrong 
for  any  man.  It  was  night  time,  and  he  took  me  out  on  a 
balcony  and  gave  me  a  free  view  of  the  sky.  And  he  showed 
me  which  Saturn  was,  and  how  to  find  it  in  different  balconies 
and  longitudes. 

"  'But  Saturn  wasn't  all.  He  was  only  the  man  higher 
up.  He  furnishes  so  much  bad  luck  that  they  allow  him  a 
gang  of  deputy  sparklers  to  help  hand  it  out.  They're  cir 
culating  and  revolving  and  hanging  around  the  main  supply 
all  the  time,  each  one  throwing  the  hoodoo  on  his  own  par 
ticular  district. 


Phoebe  98 

"  'You  see  that  ugly  little  red  star  about  eight  inches  above 
and  to  the  right  of  Saturn?'  Kearny  asked  me.  'Well, 
that's  her.  That's  Phoebe.  She's  got  me  in  charge.  "By 
the  day  of  your  birth/'  says  Azrath  to  me,  "your  life  is  sub 
jected  to  the  influence  of  Saturn.  By  the  hour  and  minute  of 
it  you  must  dwell  under  the  sway  and  direct  authority  of 
Phoebe,  the  ninth  satellite."  So  said  this  Azrath/  Kearny 
shook  his  fist  viciously  skyward.  'Curse  her,  she's  done  her 
work  well/  said  he.  'Ever  since  I  was  astrologized,  bad  luck 
has  followed  me  like  my  shadow,  as  I  told  you.  And  for  many 
years  before.  Now,  Captain,  I've  told  you  my  handicap  as 
a  man  should.  If  you're  afraid  this  evil  star  of  mine  might 
cripple  your  scheme,  leave  me  out  of  it/ 

"I  reassured  Kearny  as  veil  as  I  could.  I  told  him  that 
for  the  time  we  would  banish  both  astrology  and  astronomy 
from  our  heads.  The  manifest  valour  and  enthusiasm  of  the 
man  drew  me.  'Let  us  see  what  a  little  courage  and  diligence 
will  do  against  bad  luck,'  I  said.  'We  will  sail  to-morrow  for 
Esperando/ 

"Fifty  miles  down  the  Mississippi  our  steamer  broke  her 
rudder.  We  sent  for  a  tug  to  tow  us  back  and  lost  three  days. 
When  we  struck  the  blue  waters  of  the  Gulf,  all  the  storm 
clouds  of  the  Atlantic  seemed  to  have  concentrated  above  us. 
We  thought  surely  to  sweeten  those  leaping  waves  with  our 
sugar,  and  to  stack  our  arms  and  lumber  on  the  floor  of  the 
Mexican  Gulf. 

"Kearny  did  not  seek  to  cast  off  one  iota  of  the  burden 
of  our  danger  from  the  shoulders  of  his  fatal  horoscope.  He 
weathered  every  storm  on  deck,  smoking  a  black  pipe,  to  keep 
which  alight  rain  and  sea-water  seemed  but  as  oil.  And  he 
shook  his  fist  at  the  black  clouds  behind  which  his  baleful  star 
winked  its  unseen  eye.  When  the  skies  cleared  one  evening, 
he  reviled  his  malignant  guardian  with  grim  humour. 

"  'On  watch,  aren't  you,  you  red-headed  vixen?     Out  mak- 


94  Roads  of  Destiny 

ing  it  hot  for  little  Francis  Kearny  and  his  friends,  according 
to  Hoyle.  Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  devil !  You're  a  lady, 
aren't  you? — dogging  a  man  with  bad  luck  just  because  he 
happened  to  be  born  while  your  boss  was  floorwalker.  Get 
busy  and  sink  the  ship,  you  one-eyed  banshee.  Phoebe !  H'm ! 
Sounds  as  mild  as  a  milkmaid.  You  can't  judge  a  woman  by 
her  name.  Why  couldn't  I  have  had  a  man  star?  I  can't 
make  the  remarks  to  Phoebe  that  I  could  to  a  man.  Oh, 
Phoebe,  you  be  —  blasted !' 

"For  eight  days  gales  and  squalls  and  waterspouts  beat 
us  from  our  course.  Five  days  only  should  have  landed  us  in 
Esperando.  Our  Jonah  swallowed  the  bad  credit  of  it  with 
appealing  frankness;  but  that  scarcely  lessened  the  hardships 
our  cause  was  made  to  suffer. 

"At  last  one  afternoon  we  steamed  into  the  calm  estuary  of 
the  little  Rio  Escondido.  Three  miles  up  this  we  crept,  feel 
ing  for  the  shallow  channel  between  the  low  banks  that  were 
crowded  to  the  edge  with  gigantic  trees  and  riotous  vegeta 
tion.  Then  our  whistle  gave  a  little  toot,  and  in  five  minutes 
we  heard  a  shout,  and  Carlos  —  my  brave  Carlos  Quintana  — 
crashed  through  the  tangled  vines  waving  his  cap  madly  for 

j°y- 

"A  hundred  yards  away  was  his  camp,  where  three  hundred 
chosen  patriots  of  Esperando  were  awaiting  our  coming.  For 
a  month  Carlos  had  been  drilling  them  there  in  the  tactics  of 
war,  and  filling  them  with  the  spirit  of  revolution  and  liberty. 

"  'My  Captain  —  compadre  mio!'  shouted  Carlos,  while  yet 
my  boat  was  being  lowered.  'You  should  see  them  in  the 
drill  by  companies  —  in  the  column  wheel  —  in  the  march  by 
fours  —  they  are  superb !  Also  in  the  manual  of  arms  —  but, 
alas !  performed  only  with  sticks  of  bamboo.  The  guns,  capi- 
tan  —  say  that  you  have  brought  the  guns !' 

"  'A  thousand  Winchesters,  Carlos,'  I  called  to  him.  'And 
two  Gatlings/ 


Phoebe  95 

"'Valgame  Dios!'  he  cried,  throwing  his  cap  in  the  air. 
'We  shall  sweep  the  world !' 

"At  that  moment  Kearny  tumbled  from  the  steamer's  side 
into  the  river.  He  could  not  swim,  so  the  crew  threw  him  a 
rope  and  drew  him  back  aboard.  I  caught  his  eye  and  his 
look  of  pathetic  but  still  bright  and  undaunted  consciousness 
of  his  guilty  luck.  I  told  myself  that  although  he  might  be 
a  man  to  shun,  he  was  also  one  to  be  admired. 

"I  gave  orders  to  the  sailing-master  that  the  arms,  am 
munition,  and  provisions  were  to  be  landed  at  once.  That 
was  easy  in  the  steamer's  boats,  except  for  the  two  Gatling 
guns.  For  their  transportation  ashore  we  carried  a  stout  flat- 
boat,  brought  for  the  purpose  in  the  steamer's  hold. 

"In  the  meantime  I  walked  with  Carlos  to  the  camp  and 
made  the  soldiers  a  little  speech  in  Spanish,  which  they  re 
ceived  with  enthusiasm;  and  then  I  had  some  wine  and  a  cig 
arette  in  Carlos's  tent.  Later  we  walked  back  to  the  river  to 
see  how  the  unloading  was  being  conducted. 

"The  small  arms  and  provisions  were  already  ashore,  and 
the  petty  officers  had  squads  of  men  conveying  them  to  camp. 
One  Gatling  had  been  safely  landed;  the  other  was  just  being 
hoisted  over  the  side  of  the  vessel  as  we  arrived.  I  noticed 
Kearny  darting  about  on  board,  seeming  to  have  the  ambition 
of  ten  men,  and  to  be  doing  the  work  of  five.  I  think  his  zeal 
bubbled  over  when  he  saw  Carlos  and  me.  A  rope's  end  was 
swinging  loose  from  some  part  of  the  tackle.  Kearny  leaped 
impetuously  and  caught  it.  There  was  a  crackle  and  a  hiss  and 
a  smoke  of  scorching  hemp,  and  the  Gatling  dropped  straight 
as  a  plummet  through  the  bottom  of  the  flatboat  and  buried 
itself  in  twenty  feet  of  water  and  five  feet  of  river  mud. 

"I  turned  my  back  on  the  scene.  I  heard  Carlos's  loud 
cries  as  if  from  some  extreme  grief  too  poignant  for  words. 
I  heard  the  complaining  murmur  of  the  crew  and  the  maledic 
tions  of  Torres,  the  sailing-master  —  I  could  not  bear  to  look. 


96  Roads  of  Destiny 

"By  night  some  degree  of  order  had  been  restored  in  camp. 
Military  rules  were  not  drawn  strictly,  and  the  men  were 
grouped  about  the  fires  of  their  several  messes,  playing  games 
of  chance,  singing  their  native  songs,  or  discussing  with  voluble 
animation  the  contingencies  of  our  march  upon  the  capital. 

"To  my  tent,  which  had  been  pitched  for  me  close  to  that 
of  my  chief  lieutenant,  came  Kearny,  indomitable,  smiling, 
bright-eyed,  bearing  no  traces  of  the  buffets  of  his  evil  star. 
Rather  was  his  aspect  that  of  a  heroic  martyr  whose  tribula 
tions  were  so  high-sourced  and  glorious  that  he  even  took  a 
splendour  and  a  prestige  from  them. 

"  'Well,  Captain/  said  he,  'I  guess  you  realize  that  Bad- 
Luck  Kearny  is  still  on  deck.  It  was  a  shame,  now,  about 
that  gun.  She  only  needed  to  be  slewed  two  inches  to  clear 
the  rail;  and  that's  why  I  grabbed  that  rope's  end.  Who'd 
have  thought  that  a  sailor  —  even  a  Sicilian  lubber  on  a  ba 
nana  coaster  —  would  have  fastened  a  line  in  a  bow-knot? 
Don't  think  I'm  trying  to  dodge  the  responsibility,  Captain. 
It's  my  luck.' 

'  'There  are  men,  Kearny/  said  I  gravely,  'who  pass 
through  life  blaming  upon  luck  and  chance  the  mistakes  that 
result  from  their  own  faults  and  incompetency.  I  do  not  say 
that  you  are  such  a  man.  But  if  all  your  mishaps  are  trace 
able  to  that  tiny  star,  the  sooner  we  endow  our  colleges  with 
chairs  of  moral  astronomy,  the  better.' 

"  'It  isn't  the  size  of  the  star  that  counts/  said  Kearny ; 
'it's  the  quality.  Just  the  way  it  is  with  women.  That's  why 
they  gave  the  biggest  planets  masculine  names,  and  the  little, 
stars  feminine  ones  —  to  even  things  up  when  it  comes  to  get 
ting  their  work  in.  Suppose  they  had  called  my  star  Agamem 
non  or  Bill  McCarty  or  something  like  that  instead  of  Phoebe. 
Every  time  one  of  those  old  boys  touched  their  calamity  but 
ton  and  sent  me  down  one  of  their  wireless  pieces  of  bad  luck, 
I  could  talk  back  and  tell  'em  what  I  thought  of  'em  in  suit- 


Phoebe  97, 

able    terms.     But    you    can't    address    such    remarks    to    a 
Phoebe.' 

"'It  pleases  you  to  make  a  joke  of  it,  Kearny,'  said  I, 
without  smiling.  'But  it  is  no  joke  to  me  to  think  of  my  Gat- 
ling  mired  in  the  river  ooze.' 

"  'As  to  that/  said  Kearny,  abandoning  his  light  mood  at 
once,  'I  have  already  done  what  I  could.  I  have  had  some 
experience  in  hoisting  stone  in  quarries.  Torres  and  I  have 
already  spliced  three  hawsers  and  stretched  them  from  the 
steamer's  stern  to  a  tree  on  shore.  We  will  rig  a  tackle  and 
have  the  gun  on  terra  firma  before  noon  to-morrow/ 

"One  could  not  remain  long  at  outs  with  Bad-Luck  Kearny. 

"  'Once  more,'  said  I  to  him,  'we  will  waive  this  question 
of  luck.  Have  you  ever  had  experience  in  drilling  raw 
troops  ?' 

"  'I  was  first  sergeant  and  drill-master/  said  Kearny,  'in 
the  Chilean  army  for  one  year.  And  captain  of  artiPery  for 
another.' 

'  'What  became  of  your  command  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Shot  down  to  a  man,'  said  Kearny,  'during  the  revolu 
tions  against  Balmaceda.' 

"Somehow  the  misfortunes  of  the  evil-starred  one  seemed 
to  turn  to  me  their  comedy  side.  I  lay  back  upon  my  goat's- 
hide  cot  and  laughed  until  the  woods  echoed.  Kearny  grinned. 
'I  told  you  how  it  was,'  he  said. 

"  'To-morrow,'  I  said,  'I  shall  detail  one  hundred  men  un 
der  your  command  for  manual-of-arms  drill  and  company  evo 
lutions.  You  will  rank  as  lieutenant.  Now,  for  God's  sake, 
Kearny,'  I  urged  him,  'try  to  combat  this  superstition  if  it 
is  one.  Bad  luck  may  be  like  any  other  visitor  —  preferring 
to  stop  where  it  is  expected.  Get  your  mind  off  stars.  Look 
upon  Esperando  as  your  planet  of  good  fortune.' 

"  'I  thank  you,  Captain,'  said  Kearny  quietly.  'I  will  try 
to  make  it  the  best  handicap  I  ever  ran.' 


98  Roads  of  Destiny 

"By  noon  the  next  day  the  submerged  Gatling  was  res 
cued,  as  Kearny  had  promised.  Then  Carlos  and  Manuel 
Ortiz  and  Kearny  (my  lieutenants)  distributed  Winchesters 
among  the  troops  and  put  them  through  an  incessant  rifle  drill. 
We  fired  no  shots,  blank  or  solid,  for  of  all  coasts  Esperando 
is  the  stillest;  and  we  had  no  desire  to  sound  any  warnings  in 
the  ear  of  that  corrupt  government  until  they  should  carry  with 
them  the  message  of  Liberty  and  the  downfall  of  Oppres 
sion. 

"In  the  afternoon  came  a  mule-rider  bearing  a  written 
message  to  me  from  Don  Rafael  Valdevia  in  the  capital,  Aguas 
Frias. 

"Whenever  that  man's  name  comes  to  my  lips,  words  of 
tribute  to  his  greatness,  his  noble  simplicity,  and  his  conspicu 
ous  genius  follow  irrepressibly.  He  was  a  traveller,  a  student 
of  peoples  and  governments,  a  master  of  sciences,  a  poet,  an 
orator,  a  leader,  a  soldier,  a  critic  of  the  world's  campaigns 
and  the  idol  of  the  people  of  Esperando.  I  had  been  honoured 
by  his  friendship  for  years.  It  was  I  who  first  turned  his 
mind  to  the  thought  that  he  should  leave  for  his  monument  a 
new  Esperando  —  a  country  freed  from  the  rule  of  unscrupu 
lous  tyrants,  and  a  people  made  happy  and  prosperous  by  wise 
and  impartial  legislation.  When  he  had  consented  he  threw 
himself  into  the  cause  with  the  undivided  zeal  with  which  he 
endowed  all  of  his  acts.  The  coffers  of  his  fortune  were 
opened  to  those  of  us  to  whom  were  entrusted  the  secret  moves 
of  the  game.  His  popularity  was  already  so  great  that  he 
had  practically  forced  President  Cruz  to  offer  him  the  port 
folio  of  Minister  of  War. 

"The  time.  Don  Rafael  said  in  his  letter,  was  ripe.  Success, 
he  prophesied,  was  certain.  The  people  were  beginning  to 
clamour  publicly  against  Cruz's  misrule.  Bands  of  citizens  in 
the  capital  were  even  going  about  of  nights  hurling  stones  at 
public  buildings  and  expressing  their  dissatisfaction,  A 


Phoebe  99 

bronze  statue  of  President  Cruz  in  the  Botanical  Gardens  had 
been  lassoed  about  the  neck  and  overthrown.  It  only  remained 
for  me  to  arrive  with  my  force  and  my  thousand  rifles,  and  for 
himself  to  come  forward  and  proclaim  himself  the  people's 
saviour,  to  overthrow  Cruz  in  a  single  day.  There  would  be 
but  a  half-hearted  resistance  from  the  six  hundred  government 
troops  stationed  in  the  capital.  The  country  was  ours.  He 
presumed  that  by  this  time  my  steamer  had  arrived  at  Quin- 
tana's  camp.  He  proposed  the  eighteenth  of  July  for  the 
attack.  That  would  give  us  six  days  in  which  to  strike  camp 
and  march  to  Aguas  Frias.  In  the  meantime  Don  Rafael 
remained  my  good  friend  and  compadre  en  la  causa  de  la 
libertad. 

"On  the  morning  of  the  14th  we  began  our  march  toward 
the  sea-following  range  of  mountains,  over  the  sixty-mile  trail 
to  the  capital.  Our  small  arms  and  provisions  were  laden  on 
pack  mules.  Twenty  men  harnessed  to  each  Gatling  gun 
rolled  them  smoothly  along  the  flat,  alluvial  lowlands.  Our 
troops,  well-shod  and  well-fed,  moved  with  alacrity  and  hearti 
ness.  I  and  my  three  lieutenants  were  mounted  on  the  tough 
mountain  ponies  of  the  country. 

"A  mile  out  of  camp  one  of  the  pack  mules,  becoming  stub 
born,  broke  away  from  the  train  and  plunged  from  the  path 
into  the  thicket.  The  alert  Kearny  spurred  quickly  after  it 
find  intercepted  its  flight.  Rising  in  his  stirrups,  he  released 
one  foot  and  bestowed  upon  the  mutinous  animal  a  hearty  kick. 
The  mule  tottered  and  fell  with  a  crash  broadside  upon  the 
ground.  As  we  gathered  around  it,  it  walled  its  great  eyes 
almost  humanly  toward  Kearny  and  expired.  That  was  bad; 
but  worse,  to  our  minds,  was  the  concomitant  disaster.  Part 
of  the  mule's  burden  had  been  one  hundred  pounds  of  the 
finest  coffee  to  be  had  in  the  tropics.  The  bag  burst  and 
spilled  the  priceless  brown  mass  of  the  ground  berries  among 
the  dense  vines  and  weeds  of  the  swampy  land.  Mala  suerte! 


100  Roads  of  Destiny 

When  you  take  away  from  an  Esperandan  his  coffee,  you  ab 
stract  his  patriotism  and  50  per  cent,  of  his  value  as  a  soldier. 
The  men  began  to  rake  up  the  precious  stuff;  but  I  beckoned 
Kearny  back  along  the  trail  where  they  would  not  hear.  The 
limit  had  been  reached. 

"I  took  from  my  pocket  a  wallet  of  money  and  drew  out 
some  bills. 

"  'Mr.  Kearny/  said  I,  'here  are  some  funds  belonging  to 
Don  Rafael  Valdevia,  which  I  am  expending  in  his  cause.  I 
know  of  no  better  service  it  can  buy  for  him  than  this.  Here 
is  one  hundred  dollars.  Luck  or  no  luck,  we  part  company 
here.  Star  or  no  star,  calamity  seems  to  travel  by  your  side. 
You  will  return  to  the  steamer.  She  touches  at  Amotapa  to 
discharge  her  lumber  and  iron,  and  then  puts  back  to  New  Or 
leans.  Hand  this  note  to  the  sailing-master,  who  will  give  you 
passage.'  I  wrote  on  a  leaf  torn  from  my  book,  and  placed 
it  and  the  money  in  Kearny's  hand. 

"  'Good-bye/  I  said,  extending  my  own.  'It  is  not  that  I 
am  displeased  with  you;  but  there  is  no  place  in  this  expe 
dition  for  —  let  us  say,  the  Sefiorita  Phoebe/  I  said  this  with 
a  smile,  trying  to  smooth  the  thing  for  him.  'May  you  have 
better  luck,  companero.' 

"Kearney  took  the  money  and  the  paper. 

"  'It  was  just  a  little  touch/  said  he^  'just  a  little  lift  with 
the  toe  of  my  boot  —  but  what's  the  odds  ?  —  that  blamed 
mule  would  have  died  if  I  had  only  dusted  his  ribs  with  a 
powder  puff.  It  was  my  luck.  Well,  Captain,  I  would  have 
liked  to  be  in  that  little  fight  with  you  over  in  Aguas  Frias. 
Success  to  the  cause.  Adios!' 

"He  turned  around  and  set  off  down  the  trail  without  look 
ing  back.  The  unfortunate  mule's  pack-saddle  was  trans 
ferred  to  Kearny's  pony,  and  we  again  took  up  the  march. 

"Four  days  we  journeyed  over  the  foot-hills  and  mountains, 
fording  icy  torrents,  winding  around  the  crumbling  brows  of 


Ph&be  101 

ragged  peaks,  creeping  along  the  rocky  flanges  that  overlooked 
awful  precipices,  crawling  breathlessly  over  tottering  bridges 
that  crossed  bottomless  chasms. 

"On  the  evening  of  the  seventeenth  we  camped  by  a  little 
stream  on  the  bare  hills  five  miles  from  Aguas  Frias.  At 
daybreak  we  were  to  take  up  the  march  again. 

"At  midnight  I  was  standing  outside  my  tent  inhaling  the 
fresh  cold  air.  The  stars  were  shining  bright  in  the  cloud 
less  sky,  giving  the  heavens  their  proper  aspect  of  illimitable 
depth  and  distance  when  viewed  from  the  vague  darkness  of 
the  blotted  earth.  Almost  at  its  zenith  was  the  planet  Saturn; 
and  with  a  half-smile  I  observed  the  sinister  red  sparkle  of 
his  malignant  attendant  —  the  demon  star  of  Kearny's  ill 
luck.  And  then  my  thoughts  strayed  across  the  hills  to  the 
scene  of  our  coming  triumph  where  the  heroic  and  noble  Don 
Rafael  awaited  our  coming  to  set  a  new  and  shining  star  in 
the  firmament  of  nations. 

"I  heard  a  slight  rustling  in  the  deep  grass  to  my  right.  I 
turned  and  saw  Kearny  coming  toward  me.  He  was  ragged 
and  dew-drenched  and  limping.  His  hat  and  one  boot  were 
gone.  About  one  foot  he  had  tied  some  makeshift  of  cloth 
and  grass.  But  his  manner  as  he  approached  was  that  of  a 
man  who  knows  his  own  virtues  well  enough  to  be  superior  to 
rebuffs. 

'  'Well,  sir/  I  said,  staring  at  him  coldly,  'if  there  is  any 
thing  in  persistence.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  suc 
ceed  in  wrecking  and  ruining  us  yet.' 

"  'I  kept  half  a  day's  journey  behind,'  said  Kearny,  fishing 
out  a  stone  from  the  covering  of  his  lame  foot,  'so  the  bad 
luck  wouldn't  touch  you.  I  couldn't  help  it,  Captain ;  I  wanted 
to  be  in  on  this  game.  It  was  a  pretty  tough  trip,  especially 
in  the  department  of  the  commissary.  In  the  low  grounds 
there  were  always  bananas  and  oranges.  Higher  up  it  was 
irorse;  but  your  men  left  a  good  deal  of  goat  meat  hanging 


102  Roads  of  Destiny 

on  the  bushes  in  the  camps.  Here's  your  hundred  dollars. 
You're  nearly  there  now,  captain.  Let  me  in  on  the  scrapping 
to-morrow.' 

'  'Not  for  a  hundred  times  a  hundred  would  I  have  the 
tiniest  thing  go  wrong  with  my  plans  now/  I  said,  'whether 
caused  by  evil  planets  or  the  blunders  of  mere  man.  But 
yonder  is  Aguas  Frias,  five  miles  away,  and  a  clear  road.  I 
am  of  the  mind  to  defy  Saturn  and  all  his  satellites  to  spoil 
our  success  now.  At  any  rate,  I  will  not  turn  away  to-night  as 
weary  a  traveller  and  as  good  a  soldier  as  you  are,  Lieutenant 
Kearny.  Manuel  Ortiz's  tent  is  there  by  the  brightest  fire. 
Rout  him  out  and  tell  him  to  supply  you  with  food  and 
blankets  and  clothes.  We  march  again  at  daybreak.' 

"Kearny  thanked  me  briefly  but  feelingly  and  moved  away. 

"He  had  gone  scarcely  a  dozen  steps  when  a  sudden  flash 
of  bright  light  illumined  the  surrounding  hills;  a  sinister, 
growing,  hissing  sound  like  escaping  steam  filled  my  ears. 
Then  followed  a  roar  as  of  distant  thunder,  which  grew  louder 
every  instant.  This  terrifying  noise  culminated  in  a  tre 
mendous  explosion,  which  seemed  to  rock  the  hills  as  an  earth 
quake  would ;  the  illumination  waxed  to  a  glare  so  fierce  that  I 
clapped  my  hands  to  my  eyes  to  save  them.  I  thought  the 
end  of  the  world  had  come.  I  could  think  of  no  natural 
phenomenon  that  would  explain  it.  My  wits  were  staggering. 
The  deafening  explosion  trailed  off  into  the  rumbling  roar 
that  had  preceded  it;  and  through  this  I  heard  the  frightened 
shouts  of  my  troops  as  they  stumbled  from  their  resting-places 
and  rushed  wildly  about.  Also  I  heard  the  harsli  tones  of 
Kearny 's  voice  crying:  'They'll  blame  it  on  me,  of  coursej 
and  what  the  devil  it  is.  it's  not  Francis  Kearny  that  can  give 
you  an  answer.' 

"I  opened  my  eyes.  The  hills  were  still  there,  dark  and 
solid.  It  had  not  been,  then,  a  volcano  or  an  earthquake.  I 
looked  up  at  the  sky  and  saw  a  comet-like  trail  crossing  the 


Phoebe  103 

zenith  and  extending  westward  —  a  fiery  trail  waning  fainter 
and  narrower  each  moment. 

"  'A  meteor !'  I  called  aloud.  'A  meteor  has  fallen.  There 
is  no  danger.' 

"And  then  all  other  sounds  were  drowned  by  a  great  shout 
from  Kearny's  throat.  He  had  raised  both  hands  above  his 
head  and  was  standing  tiptoe. 

"THGEBE'S  GONE!'  he  cried,  with  all  his  lungs. 
'She's  busted  and  gone  to  hell.  Look,  Captain,  the  little  red 
headed  hoodoo  has  blown  herself  to  smithereens.  She  found 
Kearny  too  tough  to  handle,  and  she  puffed  up  with  spite 
and  meanness  till  her  boiler  blew  up.  It'll  be  Bad-Luck 
Kearny  no  more.  Oh,  let  us  be  joyful! 

"  'Humpty  Dumpty  sat  on  a  wall; 
Humpty  busted,  and  that'll  he  all !' 

"I  looked  up,  wondering,  and  picked  out  Saturn  in  his 
place.  But  the  small  red  twinkling  luminary  in  his  vicinity, 
which  Kearny  had  pointed  out  to  me  as  his  evil  star,  had 
vanished.  I  had  seen  it  there  but  half  an  hour  before;  there 
was  no  doubt  that  one  of  those  awful  and  mysterious  spasms 
of  nature  had  hurled  it  from  the  heavens. 

"I  clapped  Kearney  on  the  shoulder. 

"  'Little  man/  said  I,  let  this  clear  the  way  for  you.  It 
appears  that  astrology  has  failed  to  subdue  you.  Your  horo 
scope  must  be  cast  anew  with  pluck  and  loyalty  for  controlling 
stars.  I  play  you  to  win.  Now,  get  to  your  tent,  and  sleep. 
Daybreak  is  the  word/ 

"At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  eighteenth  of  July 
I  rode  into  Aguas  Frias  with  Kearny  at  my  side.  In  his 
clean  linen  suit  and  with  his  military  poise  and  keen  eye  he  was 
a  model  of  a  fighting  adventurer.  I  had  visions  of  him  riding 
as  commander  of  President  Valdevia's  body-guard  when  the 
plums  of  the  new  republic  should  begin  to  fall. 


104  Eoads  of  Destiny 

"Carlos  followed  with  the  troops  and  supplies.  He  was 
to  halt  in  a  wood  outside  the  town  and  remain  concealed  there 
until  he  received  the  word  to  advance. 

"Kearny  and  I  rode  down  the  Calle  Ancha  toward  the 
residencia  of  Don  Rafael  at  the  other  side  of  the  town.  As 
we  passed  the  superb  white  buildings  of  the  University  of  Es- 
perando,  I  saw  at  an  open  window  the  gleaming  spectacles  and 
bald  head  of  Herr  Bergowitz.  professor  of  the  natural  sciences 
and  friend  of  Don  Rafael  and  of  me  and  of  the  cause.  He 
waved  his  hand  to  me,  with  his  broad,  bland  smile. 

"There  was  no  excitement  apparent  in  Aguas  Frias.  The 
people  went  about  leisurely  as  at  all  times;  the  market  was 
thronged  with  bareheaded  women  buying  fruit  and  came;  we 
heard  the  twang  and  tinkle  of  string  bands  in  the  patios  of 
the  cantinas.  We  could  see  that  it  was  a  waiting  game  that 
Dan  Rafael  was  playing. 

"His  residencia  was  a  large  but  low  building  around  a 
great  courtyard  in  grounds  crowded  with  ornamental  trees  and 
tropic  shrubs.  At  his  door  an  old  woman  who  came  informed 
us  that  Don  Rafael  had  not  yet  arisen. 

'  'Tell  him/  said  I,  'that  Captain  Malone  and  a  friend 
wish  to  see  him  at  once.  Perhaps  he  has  overslept/ 

"She  came  back  looking  frightened. 

"  'I  have  called/  she  said,  'and  rung  his  bell  many  times, 
but  he  does  not  answer/ 

"I  knew  where  his  sleeping-room  was.  Kearny  and  I 
pushed  by  her  and  went  to  it.  I  put  my  shoulder  against 
the  thin  door  and  forced  it  open. 

"In  an  armchair  by  a  great  table  covered  with  maps  and 
books  sat  Don  Rafael  with  his  eyes  closed.  I  touched  his 
hand.  He  had  been  dead  many  hours.  On  his  head  above 
one  ear  was  a  wound  caused  by  a  heavy  blow.  It  had  ceased 
to  bleed  long  before. 


Phoebe  105 

"I  made  the  old  woman  call  a  mozo,  and  dispatched  him 
in  haste  to  fetch  Herr  Bergowitz. 

"He  came,  and  we  stood  about  as  if  we  were  half  stunned 
by  the  awful  shock.  Thus  can  the  letting  of  a  few  drops  of 
blood  from  one  man's  veins  drain  the  life  of  a  nation. 

"Presently  Herr  Bergowitz  stooped  and  picked  up  a  dark 
ish  stone  the  size  of  an  orange  which  he  saw  under  the  table. 
He  examined  it  closely  through  his  great  glasses  with  the  eye 
of  science. 

"  'A  fragment,'  said  he,  'of  a  detonating  meteor.  The 
.most  remarkable  one  in  twenty  years  exploded  above  this 
city  a  little  after  midnight  this  morning/ 

"The  professor  looked  quickly  up  at  the  ceiling.  We  saw 
the  blue  sky  through  a  hole  the  size  of  an  orange  nearly  above 
Don  Rafael's  chair. 

"I  heard  a  familiar  sound,  and  turned.  Kearny  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  floor  and  was  babbling  his  compendium 
of  bitter,  blood-freezing  curses  against  the  star  of  his  evil 
luck. 

"Undoubtedly  Phoebe  had  been  feminine.  Even  when 
hurtling  on  her  way  to  fiery  dissolution  and  everlasting  doom, 
the  last  word  had  been  hers." 

Captain  Malone  was  not  unskilled  in  narrative.  He  knew 
the  point  where  a  story  should  end.  I  sat  reveling  in  his 
effective  conclusion  when  he  aroused  me  by  continuing: 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  "our  schemes  were  at  an  end.  There 
was  no  one  to  take  Don  Rafael's  place.  Our  little  army 
melted  away  like  dew  before  the  sun. 

"One  day  after  I  had  returned  to  New  Orleans  I  related 
this  story  to  a  friend  who  holds  a  professorship  in  Tulane 
University. 

"When  I  had  finished  he  laughed  and  asked  whether  I  had 


106  Roads  of  Destiny 

any  knowledge  of  Kearny 's  luck  afterward.  I  told  him  no, 
that  I  had  seen  him  no  more ;  but  that  when  he  left  me,  he  had 
expressed  confidence  that  his  future  would  be  successful  now 
that  his  unlucky  star  had  been  overthrown. 

"  'No  doubt,'  said  the  professor,  'he  is  happier  not  to  know 
one  fact.  If  he  derives  his  bad  luck  from  Phoebe,  the  ninth 
satellite  of  Saturn,  that  malicious  lady  is  still  engaged  in 
overlooking  his  career.  The  star  close  to  Saturn  that  he  im 
agined  to  be  her  was  near  that  planet  simply  by  the  chance 
of  its  orbit  —  probably  at  different  times  he  has  regarded 
many  other  stars  that  happened  to  be  in  Saturn's  neighbour 
hood  as  his  evil  one.  The  real  Phoebe  is  visible  only  through 
a  very  good  telescope.' 

"  About  a  year  afterward,"  continued  Captain  Malone,  "I 
was  walking  down  a  street  that  crossed  the  Poydras  Market. 
An  immensely  stout,  pink-faced  lady  in  black  satin  crowded 
me  from  the  narrow  sidewalk  with  a  frown.  Behind  her 
trailed  a  little  man  laden  to  the  gunwales  with  bundles  and 
bags  of  goods  and  vegetables. 

"It  was  Kearny  —  but  changed.  I  stopped  and  shook  one 
of  his  hands,  which  still  clung  to  a  bag  of  garlic  and  red 
peppers. 

"  'How  is  the  luck,  old  companero?'  I  asked  him.  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  tell  him  the  truth  about  his  star. 

"  'Well/  said  he,  'I  am  married,  as  you  may  guess/ 

"  'Francis !'  called  the  big  lady,  in  deep  tones,  'are  you 
going  to  stop  in  the  street  talking  all  day?' 

"  'I  am  coming,  Phoebe  dear,'  said  Kearny,  hastening  after 
her." 

Captain  Malone  ceased  again. 

"After  all,  do  you  believe  in  luck?"  I  asked. 

"Do  you?"  answered  the  captain,  with  his  ambiguous 
smile  shaded  by  the  brim  of  his  soft  straw  hat. 


VIII 
A  DOUBLE-DYED  DECEIVER 

iHE  trouble  began  in  Laredo.  It  was  the  Llano  Kid's 
fault,  for  he  should  have  confined  his  habit  of  manslaughter 
to  Mexicans.  But  the  Kid  was  past  twenty ;  and  to  have  only 
Mexicans  to  one's  credit  at  twenty  is  to  blush  unseen  on  the 
Rio  Grande  border. 

It  happened  in  old  Justo  Valdo's  gambling  house.  There 
was  a  poker  game  at  which  sat  players  who  were  not  all 
friends,  as  happens  often  where  men  ride  in  from  afar  to 
shoot  Folly  as  she  gallops.  There  was  a  row  over  so  small 
a  matter  as  a  pair  of  queens ;  and  when  the  smoke  had  cleared 
away  it  was  found  that  the  Kid  had  committed  an  indiscretion, 
and  his  adversary  had  been  guilty  of  a  blunder.  For,  the  un 
fortunate  combatant,  instead  of  being  a  Greaser,  was  a  high- 
blooded  youth  from  the  cow  ranches,  of  about  the  Kid's  own 
age  and  possessed  of  friends  and  champions.  His  blunder  in 
missing  the  Kid's  right  ear  only  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  when  he 
pulled  his  gun  did  not  lessen  the  indiscretion  of  the  better 
marksman. 

The  Kid,  not  being  equipped  with  a  retinue,  nor  bountifully 
supplied  with  personal  admirers  and  supporters  —  on  account 
of  a  rather  umbrageous  reputation,  even  for  the  border  —  con* 
sidered  it  not  incompatible  with  his  indisputable  gameness  t« 
perform  that  judicious  tractional  act  known  as  "pulling  hia 
freight." 

Quickly  the  avengers  gathered  and  sought  him.  Three  of 
them  overtook  him  within  a  rod  of  the  station.  The  Kid 

107 


108  Roads  of  Destiny 

turned  and  showed  his  teeth  in  that  brilliant  but  mirthless 
smile  that  usually  preceded  his  deeds  of  insolence  and  violence, 
and  his  pursuers  fell  back  without  making  it  necessary  for 
him  even  to  reach  for  his  weapon. 

But  in  this  affair  the  Kid  had  not  felt  the  grim  thirst  for 
encounter  that  usually  urged  him  on  to  battle.  It  had  been 
a  purely  chance  row,  born  of  the  cards  and  certain  epithets 
impossible  for  a  gentleman  to  brook  that  had  passed  between 
the  two.  The  Kid  had  rather  liked  the  slim,  haughty,  brown- 
faced  young  chap  whom  his  bullet  had  cut  off  in  the  first  pride 
of  manhood.  And  now  he  wanted  no  more  blood.  He  wanted 
to  get  away  and  have  a  good  long  sleep  somewhere  in  the  sun 
on  the  mesquit  grass  with  his  handkerchief  over  his  face. 
Even  a  Mexican  might  have  crossed  his  path  in  safety  while 
he  was  in  this  mood. 

The  Kid  openly  boarded  the  north-bound  passenger  train 
that  departed  five  minutes  later.  But  at  Webb,  a  few  miles 
out,  where  it  was  flagged  to  take  on  a  traveller,  he  abandoned 
that  manner  of  escape.  There  were  telegraph  stations  ahead ; 
and  the  Kid  looked  askance  at  electricity  and  steam.  Saddle 
and  spur  were  his  rocks  of  safety. 

The  man  whom  he  had  shot  was  a  stranger  to  him.  But 
the  Kid  knew  that  he  was  of  the  Coralitos  outfit  from  Hidalgo ; 
and  that  the  punchers  from  that  ranch  were  more  relentless 
and  vengeful  than  Kentucky  feudists  when  wrong  or  harm 
was  done  to  one  of  them.  So,  with  the  wisdom  that  has  char 
acterized  many  great  fighters,  the  Kid  decided  to  pile  up  as 
many  leagues  as  possible  of  chaparral  and  pear  between  him 
self  and  the  retaliation  of  the  Coralitos  bunch. 

Near  the  station  was  a  store;  and  near  the  store,  scattered 
among  the  mesquits  and  elms,  stood  the  saddled  horses  of  the 
customers.  Most  of  them  waited,  half  asleep,  with  sagging 
limbs  and  drooping  heads.  But  one,  a  long-legged  roan  with 
a  curved  neck,  snorted  and  pawed  the  turf.  Him  the  Kid 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  109 

mounted,  gripped  with  his  knees,  and  slapped  gently  with 
the  owner's  own  quirt. 

If  the  slaying  of  the  temerarious  card-player  had  cast  a 
cloud  over  the  Kid's  standing  as  a  good  and  true  citizen,  this 
last  act  of  his  veiled  his  figure  in  the  darkest  shadows  of  dis 
repute.  On  the  Rio  Grande  border  if  you  take  a  man's  life 
you  sometimes  take  trash;  but  if  you  take  his  horse,  you  take 
a  thing  the  loss  of  which  renders  him  poor,  indeed,  and  which 
enriches  you  not  —  if  you  are  caught.  For  the  Kid  there  was 
no  turning  back  now. 

With  the  springing  roan  under  him  he  felt  little  care  or 
uneasiness.  After  a  five-mile  gallop  he  drew  in  to  the  plains 
man's  jogging  trot,  and  rode  northeastward  toward  the  Nueces 
River  bottoms.  He  knew  the  country  well  —  its  most  tortuous 
and  obscure  trails  through  the  great  wilderness  of  brush  and 
pear,  and  its  camps  and  lonesome  ranches  where  one  might 
find  safe  entertainment.  Always  he  bore  to  the  east;  for  the 
Kid  had  never  seen  the  ocean,  and  he  had  a  fancy  to  lay  his 
hand  upon  the  mane  of  the  great  Gulf,  the  gamesome  colt  of 
the  greater  waters. 

So  after  three  days  he  stood  on  the  shore  at  Corpus  Christi, 
and  looked  out  across  the  gentle  ripples  of  a  quiet  sea. 

Captain  Boone,  of  the  schooner  Flyaway,  stood  near  his 
skiff,  which  one  of  his  crew  was  guarding  in  the  surf.  When 
ready  to  sail  he  had  discovered  that  one  of  the  necessaries  of 
life,  in  the  parallelogrammatic  shape  of  plug  tobacco,  had  been 
forgotten.  A  sailor  had  been  dispatched  for  the  missing  car 
go.  Meanwhile  the  captain  paced  the  sands,  chewing  pro 
fanely  at  his  pocket  store. 

A  slim,  wiry  youth  in  high-heeled  boots  came  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  His  face  was  boyish,  but  with  a  premature 
severity  that  hinted  at  a  man's  experience.  His  complexion 
was  naturally  dark;  and  the  sun  and  wind  of  an  outdoor  life 
had  burned  it  to  a  coffee  brown.  His  hair  was  as  black  and 


110  Roads  of  Destiny 

straight  as  an  Indian's ;  his  face  had  not  yet  been  upturned  to 
the  humiliation  of  a  razor;  his  eyes  were  a  cold  and  steady 
blue.  He  carried  his  left  arm  somewhat  away  from  his  body, 
for  pearl-handled  .45s  are  frowned  upon  by  town  marshals, 
and  are  a  little  bulky  when  packed  in  the  left  armhole  of 
one's  vest.  He  looked  beyond  Captain  Boone  at  the  gulf  with 
the  impersonal  and  expressionless  diginity  of  a  Chinese  em 
peror. 

"Thinkin'  of  buyin'  that'ar  gulf,  buddy?"  asked  the  cap 
tain,  made  sarcastic  by  his  narrow  escape  from  the  tobaccoless 
voyage. 

"Why,  no/'  said  the  Kid  gently,  "I  reckon  not.  I  never 
saw  it  before.  I  was  just  looking  at  it.  Not  thinking  of 
selling  it,  are  you?  " 

"Not  this  trip,"  said  the  captain.  "I'll  send  it  to  you 
C.  O.  D.  when  I  get  back  to  Buenas  Tierras.  Here  comes 
that  capstanfooted  lubber  with  the  chewin'.  I  ought  to've 
weighed  anchor  an  hour  ago." 

"Is  that  your  ship  out  there?"  asked  the  Kid. 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  the  captain,  "if  you  want  to  call  a 
schooner  a  ship,  and  I  don't  mind  lyin'.  But  you  better  say 
Miller  and  Gonzales,  owners,  and  ordinary  plain,  Billy-be- 
damned  old  Samuel  K.  Boone,  skipper." 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  asked  the  refugee. 

"Buenas  Tierras,  coast  of  South  America  —  I  forgot  what 
they  called  the  country  the  last  time  I  was  there.  Cargo  — 
lumber,  corrugated  iron,  and  machetes." 

"What  kind  of  a  country  is  it?"  asked  the  Kid — "hot  or 
cold?" 

"Warmish,  buddy,"  said  the  captain.  "But  a  regular 
Paradise  Lost  for  elegance  of  scenery  and  be-yooty  of  geo 
graphy.  Ye're  wakened  every  morning  by  the  sweet  singin' 
of  red  birds  with  seven  purple  tails,  and  the  sighin'  of 
breezes  in  the  posies  and  roses.  And  the  inhabitants  never 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  111 

work,  for  they  can  reach  out  and  pick  steamer  baskets  of  the 
choicest  hothouse  fruit  without  gettin'  out  of  bed.  And  there's 
no  Sunday  and  no  ice  and  no  rent  and  no  troubles  and  no  use 
and  no  nothin'.  It's  a  great  country  for  a  man  to  go  to  sleep 
with,  and  wait  for  somethin'  to  turn  up.  The  barianys  and 
oranges  and  hurricanes  and  pineapples  that  ye  eat  comes  from 
there." 

"That  sounds  to  me!"  said  the  Kid,  at  last  betraying  in 
terest.  "What'll  the  expressage  be  to  take  me  out  there  with 
you?" 

"Twenty-four  dollars,"  said  Captain  Boone;  "grub  and 
transportation.  Second  cabin.  I  haven't  got  a  first  cabin." 

"You've  got  my  company/'  said  the  Kid,  pulling  out  a 
buckskin  bag. 

With  three  hundred  dollars  he  had  gone  to  Laredo  for  his 
regular  "blowout."  The  duel  in  Valdos's  had  cut  short  his 
season  of  hilarity,  but  it  had  left  him  with  nearly  $200  for 
aid  in  the  fight  that  it  had  made  necessary. 

"All  right,  buddy,"  said  the  captain.  "I  hope  your  ma 
won't  blame  me  for  this  little  childish  escapade  of  yours." 
He  beckoned  to  one  of  the  boat's  crew.  "Let  Sanchez  lift 
you  out  to  the  skiff  so  you  won't  get  your  feet  wet." 

Thacker,  the  United  States  consul  at  Buenas  Tierras,  was  not 
yet  drunk.  It  was  only  eleven  o'clock;  and  he  never  arrived 
at  his  desired  state  of  beatitude  —  a  state  where  he  sang 
ancient  maudlin  vaudeville  songs  and  pelted  his  screaming 
parrot  with  banana  peels  —  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
So,  when  he  looked  up  from  his  hammock  at  the  sound  of  a 
slight  cough,  and  saw  the  Kid  standing  in  the  door  of  the 
consulate,  he  was  still  in  a  condition  to  extend  the  hospitality 
and  courtesy  due  from  the  representative  of  a  great  nation. 
"Don't  disturb  yourself,"  said  the  Kid  easily.  "I  just 
dropped  in.  They  told  me  it  was  customary  to  light  at  your 


112  Roads  of  Destiny 

camp  before  starting  in  to  round  up  the  town.  I  just  came 
in  on  a  ship  from  Texas." 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr. ,"  said  the  consul. 

The  Kid  laughed. 

"Sprague  Dalton,"  he  said.  "It  sounds  funny  to  me  to 
hear  it.  I'm  called  the  Llano  Kid  in  the  Rio  Grande  country." 

"I'm  Thacker,"  said  the  consul.  "Take  that  cane-bottom 
chair.  Now  if  you've  come  to  invest,  you  want  somebody  to 
advise  you.  These  dingies  will  cheat  you  out  of  the  gold  in 
your  teeth  if  you  don't  understand  their  ways.  Try  a  cigar  ?" 

"Much  obliged,"  said  the  Kid,  "but  if  it  wasn't  for  my 
corn  shucks  and  the  little  bag  in  my  back  pocket  I  couldn't 
live  a  minute."  He  took  out  his  "makings,"  and  rolled  a 
cigarette. 

"They  speak  Spanish  here,"  said  the  consul.  "You'll  need 
an  interpreter.  If  there's  anything  I  can  do,  why,  I'd  be 
delighted.  If  you're  buying  fruit  lands  or  looking  for  a 
concession  of  any  sort,  you'll  want  somebody  who  knows  the 
ropes  to  look  out  for  you." 

"I  speak  Spanish,"  said  the  Kid,  "about  nine  times  better 
than  I  do  English.  Everybody  speaks  it  on  the  range  where 
I  come  from.  And  I'm  not  in  the  market  for  anything." 

"You  speak  Spanish?"  said  Thacker  thoughtfully.  He 
regarded  the  Kid  absorbedly. 

"You  look  like  a  Spaniard,  too,"  he  continued.  "And 
you're  from  Texas.  And  you  can't  be  more  than  twenty  or 
twenty-one.  I  wonder  if  you've  got  any  nerve." 

"You  got  a  deal  of  some  kind  to  put  through?"  asked  the 
Texan,  with  unexpected  shrewdness. 

"Are  you  open  to  a  proposition?"  said  Thacker. 

"What's  the  use  to  deny  it?"  said  the  Kid.  "I  got  into 
a  little  gun  frolic  down  in  Laredo  and  plugged  a  white  man. 
There  wasn't  any  Mexican  handy.  And  I  come  down  to  your 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  113 

parrot-and-monkey  range  just  for  to  smell  the  morning-glories 
and  marigolds.     Now,,  do  you  sabe?" 

Thacker  got  up  and  closed  the  door. 

"Let  me  see  your  hand/'  he  said. 

He  took  the  Kid's  left  hand,  and  examined  the  back  of  it 
closely. 

"I  can  do  it,"  he  said  excitedly.  "Your  flesh  is  as  hard 
as  wood  and  as  healthy  as  a  baby's.  It  will  heal  in  a  week." 

"If  it's  a  fist  fight  you  want  to  back  me  for,"  said  the  Kid, 
"don't  put  your  money  up  yet.  Make  it  gun  work,  and  I'll 
keep  you  company.  But  no  barehanded  scrapping,  like  ladies 
at  a  tea-party,  for  me." 

"It's  easier  than  that,"  said  Thacker.  "Just  step  here, 
will  you?" 

Through  the  window  he  pointed  to  a  two-story  white-stuccoed 
house  with  wide  galleries  rising  amid  the  deep-green  tropical 
foliage  on  a  wooded  hill  that  sloped  gently  from  the  sea. 

"In  that  house,"  said  Thacker,  "a  fine  old  Castilian  gentle 
man  and  his  wife  are  yearning  to  gather  you  into  their  arms 
and  fill  your  pockets  with  money.  Old  Santos  Urique  lives 
there.  He  owns  half  the  gold-mines  in  the  country." 

"You  haven't  been  eating  loco  weed,  have  you?"  asked  the 
Kid. 

"Sit  down  again,"  said  Thacker,  "and  I'll  tell  you. 
Twelve  years  ago  they  lost  a  kid.  No,  he  didn't  die  —  al 
though  most  of  'em  here  do  from  drinking  the  surface  water. 
He  was  a  wild  little  devil,  even  if  he  wasn't  but  eight  years 
old.  Everybody  knows  about  it.  Some  Americans  who  were 
through  here  prospecting  for  gold  had  letters  to  Sefior  Urique, 
and  the  boy  was  a  favourite  with  them.  They  filled  his  head 
with  big  stories  about  the  States ;  and  about  a  month  after  they 
left,  the  kid  disappeared,  too.  He  was  supposed  to  have 
stowed  himself  away  among  the  banana  bunches  on  a  fruit 


114  rBoads  of  Destiny 

steamer,  and  gone  to  New  Orleans.  He  was  seen  once  after 
ward  in  Texas,  it  was  thought,  but  they  never  heard  anything 
more  of  him.  Old  Urique  has  spent  thousands  of  dollars  hav 
ing  him  looked  for.  The  madam  was  broken  up  worst  of  all. 
The  kid  was  her  life.  She  wears  mourning  yet.  But  they  say 
she  believes  he'll  come  back  to  her  some  day,,  and  never  gives 
up  hope.  On  the  back  of  the  boy's  left  hand  was  tattooed 
a  flying  eagle  carrying  a  spear  in  his  claws.  That's  old 
Urique's  coat  of  arms  or  something  that  he  inherited  in  Spain." 

The  Kid  raised  his  left  hand  slowly  and  gazed  at  it 
curiously. 

"That's  it,"  said  Thacker,  reaching  behind  the  official  desk 
for  his  bottle  of  smuggled  brandy.  "You're  not  so  slow.  I 
can  do  it.  What  was  I  consul  at  Sandakan  for?  I  never 
knew  till  now.  In  a  week  I'll  have  the  eagle  bird  with  the 
frog-sticker  blended  in  so  you'd  think  you  were  born  with  it. 
I  brought  a  set  of  the -needles  and  ink  just  because  I  was  sure 
you'd  drop  in  some  day,  Mr.  Dalton." 

"Oh,  hell,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  thought  I  told  you  my 
Hame !" 

"All  right,  'Kid,'  then.  It  won't  be  that  long.  How  does 
Senorito  Urique  sound,  for  a  change?" 

"I  never  played  son  any  that  I  remember  of,"  said  the 
Kid.  "If  I  had  any  parents  to  mention  they  went  over  the 
divide  about  the  time  I  gave  my  first  bleat.  What  is  the  plan 
of  your  round-up  ?" 

Thacker  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  held  his  glass 
up  to  the  light. 

"We've  come  now,"  said  he,  "to  the  question  of  how  far 
you're  willing  to  go  in  a  little  matter  of  the  sort." 

"I  told  you  why  I  came  down  here,"  said  the  Kid  simply. 

"A  good  answer,"  said  the  consul.  "But  you  won't  have 
to  go  that  far.  Here's  the  scheme.  After  I  get  the  trade 
mark  tattooed  on  your  hand  I'll  notify  old  Urique.  In  the 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  115 

meantime  I'll  furnish  you  with  all  of  the  family  history  I  can 
find  out,  so  you  can  be  studying  up  points  to  talk  about. 
You've  got  the  looks,  you  speak  the  Spanish,  you  know  the 
facts,  you  can  tell  about  Texas,  you've  got  the  tattoo  mark. 
When  I  notify  them  that  the  rightful  heir  has  returned  and  is 
waiting  to  know  whether  he  will  be  received  and  pardoned, 
what  will  happen  ?  '  They'll  simply  rush  down  here  and  fall 
on  your  neck,  and  the  curtain  goes  down  for  refreshments  and 
a  stroll  in  the  lobby." 

"I'm  waiting,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  haven't  had  my  saddle  off 
in  your  camp  long,  pardner,  and  I  never  met  you  before;  but 
if  you  intend  to  let  it  go  at  a  parental  blessing,  why,  I'm  mis 
taken  in  my  man,  that's  all." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  consul.  "I  haven't  met  anybody  in  a 
long  time  that  keeps  up  with  an  argument  as  well  as  you  do. 
The  rest  of  it  is  simple.  If  they  take  you  in  only  for  a  while 
it's  long  enough.  Don't  give  'em  time  to  hunt  up  the  straw 
berry  mark  on  your  left  shoulder.  Old  Urique  keeps  any 
where  from  $50,000  to  $100,000  in  his  house  all  the  time  in  a 
little  safe  that  you  could  open  with  a  shoe  buttoner.  Get  it. 
My  skill  as  a  tattooer  is  worth  half  the  boodle.  We  go  halves 
and  catch  a  tramp  steamer  for  Rio  Janeiro.  Let  the  United 
States  go  to  pieces  if  it  can't  get  along  without  my  services. 
Que  dice,  senor?" 

"It  sounds  to  me!"  said  the  Kid,  nodding  his  head.  "I'm 
out  for  the  dust." 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Thacker.  "You'll  have  to  keep 
close  until  we  get  the  bird  on  you.  You  can  live  in  the  back 
room  here.  I  do  my  own  cooking,  and  I'll  make  you  as  com 
fortable  as  a  parsimonious  Government  will  allow  me." 

Thacker  had  set  the  time  at  a  week,  but  it  was  two  weeks 
before  the  design  that  he  patiently  tattooed  upon  the  Kid's 
hand  was  to  his  notion.  And  then  Thacker  called  a  muchacho, 
and  dispatched  this  note  to  the  intended  victim; 


116  Roads  of  Destiny 

EL  SENOR  DON  SANTOS  URIQUE, 

La  Casa  Blanca, 
MY  DEAR  SIR: 

I  beg  permission  to  inform  you  that  there  is  in  my  house  as  a 
temporary  guest  a  young  man  who  arrived  in  Buenas  Tierras  from 
the  United  States  some  days  ago.  Without  wishing  to  excite  any 
hopes  that  may  not  be  realized,  I  think  there  is  a  possibility  of  his 
being  your  long-absent  son.  It  might  be  well  for  you  to  call  and 
see  him.  If  he  is,  it  is  my  opinion  that  his  intention  was  to  return 
to  his  home,  but  upon  arriving  here,  his  courage  failed  him  from 
doubts  as  to  how  he  would  be  received.  Your  true  servant, 

THOMPSON  THACKER. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  —  quick  time  for  Buenas  Tierras 
—  Senor  Urique's  ancient  landau  drove  to  the  consul's  door, 
with  the  barefooted  coachman  beating  and  shouting  at  the 
team  of  fat,  awkward  horses. 

A  tall  man  with  a  white  moustache  alighted,  and  assisted  to 
the  ground  a  lady  who  was  dressed  and  veiled  in  unrelieved 
black. 

The  two  hastened  inside,  and  were  met  by  Thacker  with  his 
best  diplomatic  bow.  By  his  desk  stood  a  slender  young  man 
with  clear-cut,  sunbrowned  features  and  smoothly  brushed 
black  hair. 

Senora  Urique  threw  back  her  heavy  veil  with  a  quick  ges 
ture.  She  was  past  middle  age,  and  her  hair  was  beginning 
to  silver,  but  her  full,  proud  figure  and  clear  olive  skin  retained 
traces  of  the  beauty  peculiar  to  the  Basque  province.  But, 
once  you  had  seen  her  eyes,  and  comprehended  the  great  sad 
ness  that  was  revealed  in  their  deep  shadows  and  hopeless  ex 
pression,  you  saw  that  the  woman  lived  only  in  some  memory. 

She  bent  upon  the  young  man  a  long  look  of  the  most  agon 
ized  questioning.  Then  her  great  black  eyes  turned,  and  her 
gaze  rested  upon  his  left  hand.  And  then  with  a  sob,  not 
loud,  but  seeming  to  shake  the  room,  she  cried  "Hi jo  mio!" 
and  caught  the  Llano  Kid  to  her  heart. 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  117 

A  month  afterward  the  Kid  came  to  the  consulate  in  re 
sponse  to  a  message  sent  by  Thacker. 

He  looked  the  young  Spanish  caballero.  His  clothes  were 
imported,  and  the  wiles  of  the  jewellers  had  not  been  spent 
upon  him  in  vain.  A  more  than  respectable  diamond  shone  on 
his  finger  as  he  rolled  a  shuck  cigarette. 

"What's  doing?"  asked  Thacker. 

"Nothing  much,"  said  the  Kid  calmly.  "I  eat  my  first 
iguana  steak  to-day.  They're  them  big  lizards,  you  sabe?  I 
reckon,  though,  that  frijoles  and  side  bacon  would  do  me 
about  as  well.  Do  you  care  for  iguanas,  Thacker?" 

"No,  nor  for  some  other  kinds  of  reptiles,"  said  Thacker. 

It  was  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  in  another  hour  he  would 
be  in  his  state  of  beatitude. 

"It's  time  you  were  making  good,  sonny,"  he  went  on,  with 
an  ugly  look  on  his  reddened  face.  "You're  not  playing  up 
to  me  square.  You've  been  the  prodigal  son  for  four  weeks 
now,  and  you  could  have  had  veal  for  every  meal  on  a  gold 
iish  if  you'd  wanted  it.  Now,  Mr.  Kid,  do  you  think  it's 
tight  to  leave  me  out  so  long  on  a  husk  diet?  What's  the 
trouble?  Don't  you  get  your  filial  eyes  on  anything  that 
looks  like  cash  in  the  Casa  Blanca?  Don't  tell  me  you  don't. 
Everybody  knows  where  old  Urique  keeps  his  stuff.  It's  U.  S. 
currency,  too;  he  don't  accept  anything  else.  What's  doing? 
Don't  say  'nothing'  this  time." 

"Why,  sure,"  said  the  Kid,  admiring  his  diamond,  "there's 
plenty  of  money  up  there.  I'm  no  judge  of  collateral  in 
bunches,  but  I  will  undertake  for  to  say  that  I've  seen  the 
rise  of  $50,000  at  a  time  in  that  tin  grub  box  that  my  adopted 
father  calls  his  safe.  And  he  lets  me  carry  the  key  sometimes 
just  to  show  me  that  he  knows  I'm  the  real  little  Francisco 
that  strayed  from  the  herd  a  long  time  ago." 

"Well,  what  are  you  waiting  for?"  asked  Thacker  angrily. 
"Don't  you  forget  that  I  can  upset  your  apple-cart  any  day 


118  Roads  of  Destiny 

I  want  to.  If  old  Urique  knew  you  were  an  impostor,  what 
sort  of  things  would  happen  to  you  ?  Oh,  you  don't  know  this 
country,  Mr.  Texas  Kid.  The  laws  here  have  got  mustard 
spread  between  'em.  These  people  here'd  stretch  you  out  like 
a  frog  that  had  been  stepped  on,  and  give  you  about  fifty  sticks 
at  every  corner  of  the  plaza.  And  they'd  wear  every  stick 
out,  too.  What  was  left  of  you  they'd  feed  to  alligators." 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you  now,  pardner,"  said  the  Kid, 
sliding  down  low  on  his  steamer  chair,  "that  things  are  going 
to  stay  just  as  they  are.  They're  about  right  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Thacker,  rattling  the  bottom 
of  his  glass  on  his  desk. 

"The  scheme's  off,"  said  the  Kid.  "And  whenever  you 
have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  me  address  me  as  Don  Fran 
cisco  Urique.  I'll  guarantee  I'll  answer  to  it.  We'll  let  Col 
onel  Urique  keep  his  money.  His  little  tin  safe  is  as  good 
as  the  time-locker  in  the  First  National  Bank  of  Laredo  as  far 
as  you  and  me  are  concerned." 

"You're  going  to  throw  me  down,  then,  are  you?"  said  the 
consul. 

"Sure,"  said  the  Kid  cheerfully.  "Throw  you  down. 
That's  it.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  why.  The  first  night  I  was 
up  at  the  colonel's  house  they  introduced  r^e  to  a  bedroom. 
No  blankets  on  the  floor  —  a  real  room,  with  a  bed  and  things 
in  it.  And  before  I  was  asleep,  in  comes  this  artificial  mother 
of  mine  and  tucks  in  the  covers.  'Panchito,'  she  says,  'my 
little  lost  one,  God  has  brought  you  back  to  me.  I  bless  His 
name  forever.'  It  was  that,  or  some  truck  like  that,  she  said. 
And  down  comes  a  drop  or  two  of  rain  and  hits  me  on  the 
nose.  And  all  that  stuck  by  me,  Mr.  Thacker.  And  it's  been 
that  way  ever  since.  And  it's  got  to  stay  that  way.  Don't 
you  think  that  it's  for  what's  in  it  for  me,  either,  that  I  say  so. 
If  you  have  any  such  ideas,  keep  'em  to  yourself.  I  haven't 
had  much  truck  with  women  in  my  life,  and  no  mothers  to  speak 


A  Double-Dyed  Deceiver  119 

of,  but  here's  a  lady  that  we've  got  to  keep  fooled.  Once  she 
stood  it;  twice  she  won't.  I'm  a  low-down  wolf,  and  the  devil 
may  have  sent  me  on  this  trail  instead  of  God,  but  I'll  travel 
it  to  the  end.  And  now,  don't  forget  that  I'm  Don  Francisco 
Urique  whenever  you  happen  to  mention  my  name." 

"I'll  expose  you  to-day,  you  —  you  double-dyed  traitor/' 
stammered  Thacker. 

The  Kid  arose  and,  without  violence,  took  Thacker  by  the 
throat  with  a  hand  of  steel,  and  shoved  him  slowly  into  a 
corner.  Then  he  drew  from  under  his  left  arm  his  pearl- 
handled  .45  and  poked  the  cold  muzzle  of  it  against  the  con 
sul's  mouth. 

"I  told  you  why  I  come  here,"  he  said,  with  his  old  freezing 
smile.  "If  I  leave  here,  you'll  be  the  reason.  Never  forget 
it,  pardner.  Now,  what  is  my  name?" 

"Er  —  Don  Francisco  Urique,"  gasped  Thacker. 

From  outside  came  a  sound  of  wheels,  and  the  shouting  of 
some  one,  and  the  sharp  thwacks  of  a  wooden  whipstock  upon 
the  backs  of  fat  horses. 

The  Kid  put  up  his  gun,  and  walked  toward  the  door.  But 
he  turned  again  and  came  back  to  the  trembling  Thacker,  and 
held  up  his  left  hand  with  its  back  toward  the  consul. 

"There's  one  more  reason,"  he  said  slowly,  "why  things 
have  got  to  stand  as  they  are.  The  fellow  I  killed  in  Laredo 
had  one  of  them  same  pictures  on  his  left  hand." 

Outside,  the  ancient  landau  of  Don  Santos  Urique  rattled 
to  the  door.  The  coachman  ceased  his  bellowing.  Senora 
Urique,  in  a  voluminous  gay  gown  of  white  lace  and  flying 
ribbons,  leaned  forward  with  a  happy  look  in  her  great  soft 
eyes. 

"Are  you  within,  dear  son?"  she  called,  in  the  rippling 
Castilian. 

"Maidre  mia,  yo  vengo  [mother,  I  come],"  answered  the 
young  Don  Francisco  Urique. 


IX 

THE  PASSING  OF  BLACK  EAGLE 

JF  OR  some  months  of  a  certain  year  a  grim  bandit  infested 
the  Texas  border  along  the  Rio  Grande.  Peculiarly  striking 
to  the  optic  nerve  was  this  notorious  marauder.  His  person" 
ality  secured  him  the  title  of  "Black  Eagle,  the  Terror  of  the 
Border.'*  Many  fearsome  tales  are  of  record  concerning  th( 
doings  of  him  and  his  followers.  Suddenly,  in  the  space  of  & 
single  minute,  Black  Eagle  vanished  from  earth.  He  waS 
never  heard  of  again.  His  own  band  never  even  guessed  th$ 
mystery  of  his  disappearance.  The  border  ranches  and  setr* 
tlements  feared  he  would  come  again  to  ride  and  ravage  thfc 
mesquite  flats.  He  never  will.  It  is  to  disclose  the  fate  oi 
Black  Eagle  that  this  narrative  is  written. 

The  initial  movement  of  the  story  is  furnished  by  the  fool 
of  a  bartender  in  St.  Louis.  His  discerning  eye  fell  upon 
the  form  of  Chicken  Ruggles  as  he  pecked  with  avidity  at  the 
free  lunch.  Chicken  was  a  "hobo."  He  had  a  long  nos<s 
like  the  bill  of  a  fowl,  an  inordinate  appetite  for  poultry,  and 
a  habit  of  gratifying  it  without  expense,  which  accounts  fo? 
the  name  given  him  by  his  fellow  vagrants. 

Physicians  agree  that  the  partaking  of  liquids  at  meal  time* 
is  not  a  healthy  practice.  The  hygiene  of  the  saloon  pro- 
mulgates  the  opposite.  Chicken  had  neglected  to  purchase  a 
drink  to  accompany  his  meal.  The  bartender  rounded  the 
counter,  caught  the  injudicious  diner  by  the  ear  with  a  lemon 
squeezer,  led  him  to  the  door  and  kicked  him  into  the  street. 

Thus  the  mind  of  Chicken  was  brought  to  realize  the  signs 

120 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  121 

of  coming  winter.  The  night  was  cold;  the  stars  shone  with 
unkindly  brilliancy;  people  were  hurrying  along  the  streets 
in  two  egotistic,  jostling  streams.  Men  had  donned  their 
overcoats,  and  Chicken  knew  to  an  exact  percentage  the  in 
creased  difficulty  of  coaxing  dimes  from  those  buttoned-in 
vest  pockets.  The  time  had  come  for  his  annual  exodus  to  the 
south. 

A  little  boy,  five  or  six  years  old,  stood  looking  with  covet 
ous  eyes  in  a  confectioner's  window.  In  one  small  hand  he 
held  an  empty  two-ounce  vial;  in  the  other  he  grasped  tightly 
something  flat  and  round,  with  a  shining  milled  edge.  The 
scene  presented  a  field  of  operations  commensurate  to  Chick 
en's  talents  and  daring.  After  sweeping  the  horizon  to  make 
sure  that  no  official  tug  was  cruising  near,  he  insidiously  ac 
costed  his  prey.  The  boy,  having  been  early  taught  by  his 
household  to  regard  altruistic  advances  with  extreme  suspicion, 
received  the  overtures  coldly. 

Then  Chicken  knew  that  he  must  make  one  of  those  des 
perate,  nerve-shattering  plunges  into  speculation  that  fortune 
sometimes  requires  of  those  who  would  win  her  favour.  Five 
cents  was  his  capital,  and  this  he  must  risk  against  the  chance 
of  winning  what  lay  within  the  close  grasp  of  the  youngster's 
chubby  hand.  It  was  a  fearful  lottery,  Chicken  knew.  But 
he  must  accomplish  his  end  by  strategy,  since  he  had  a  whole 
some  terror  of  plundering  infants  by  force.  Once,  in  a  park, 
driven  by  hunger,  he  had  committed  an  onslaught  upon  a  bot 
tle  of  peptonized  infant's  food  in  the  possession  of  an  occu 
pant  of  a  baby  carriage.  The  outraged  infant  had  so 
promptly  opened  its  mouth  and  pressed  the  button  that  com 
municated  with  the  welkin  that  help  arrived,  and  Chicken  did 
his  thirty  days  in  a  snug  coop.  Wherefore  he  was,  as  he  said, 
"leary  of  kids." 

Beginning  artfully  to  question  the  boy  concerning  his 
Choice  of  sweets,  he  gradually  drew  out  the  information  he 


122  Roads  of  Destiny 

wanted.  Mamma  said  he  was  to  ask  the  drug  store  man  for 
ten  cents'  worth  of  paregoric  in  the  bottle;  he  was  to  keep 
his  hand  shut  tight  over  the  dollar;  he  must  not  stop  to  talk 
to  anyone  in  the  street;  he  must  ask  the  drug-store  man  to 
wrap  up  the  change  and  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  trousers. 
Indeed,  they  had  pockets  —  two  of  them !  And  he  liked 
chocolate  creams  best. 

Chicken  went  into  the  store  and  turned  plunger.  He  in 
vested  his  entire  capital  in  C.  A.  N.  D.  Y.  stocks,  simply  to 
pave  the  way  to  the  greater  risk  following. 

He  gave  the  sweets  to  the  youngster,  and  had  the  satisfac 
tion  of  perceiving  that  confidence  was  established.  After  that 
it  was  easy  to  obtain  leadership  of  the  expedition,  to  take  the 
investment  by  the  hand  and  lead  it  to  a  nice  drug  store  he 
knew  of  in  the  same  block.  There  Chicken,  with  a  parental 
air,  passed  over  the  dollar  and  called  for  the  medicine,  while 
the  boy  crunched  his  candy,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  re- 
sponsibilty  of  the  purchase.  And  then  the  successful  in 
vestor,  searching  his  pockets,  found  an  overcoat  button  —  the 
extent  of  his  winter  trousseau  —  and,  wrapping  it  carefully; 
placed  the  ostensible  change  in  the  pocket  of  confiding  juve 
nility.  Setting  the  youngster's  face  homeward,  and  patting 
him  benevolently  on  the  back  —  for  Chicken's  heart  was  as 
soft  as  those  of  his  feathered  namesakes  —  the  speculator  quit 
the  market  with  a  profit  of  1,700  per  cent,  on  his  invested 
capital. 

Two  hours  later  an  Iron  Mountain  freight  engine  pulled 
out  of  the  railroad  yards,  Texas  bound,  with  a  string  of  emp 
ties.  In  one  of  the  cattle  cars,  half  buried  in  excelsior, 
Chicken  lay  at  ease.  Beside  him  in  his  nest  was  a  quart  bot 
tle  of  very  poor  whisky  and  a  paper  bag  of  bread  and  cheese. 
Mr.  Ruggles,  in  his  private  car,  was  OD  nis  trip  south  for  the 
winter  season. 

For  a  week  that  car  was  trundled  southward,  shifted,  laid 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  123 

over,  and  manipulated  after  the  manner  of  rolling  stock,  but 
Chicken  stuck  to  it,  leaving  it  only  at  necessary  times  to  sat 
isfy  his  hunger  and  thirst.  He  knew  it  must  go  down  to  the 
cattle  country,  and  San  Antonio,  in  the  heart  of  it,  was  his 
goal.  There  the  air  was  salubrious  and  mild;  the  people  in 
dulgent  and  long-suffering.  The  bartenders  there  would  not 
kick  him.  If  he  should  eat  too  long  or  too  often  at  one  place 
they  would  swear  at  him  as  if  by  rote  and  without  heat.  They 
swore  so  drawlingly,  and  they  rarely  paused  short  of  their 
full  vocabulary,  which  was  copious,  so  that  Chicken  had  often 
gulped  a  good  meal  during  the  process  of  the  vituperative 
prohibition.  The  season  there  was  always  spring-like;  the 
plazas  were  pleasant  at  night,  with  music  and  gayety;  except 
during  the  slight  and  infrequent  cold  snaps  one  could  sleep 
comfortably  out  of  doors  in  case  the  interiors  should  develop 
inhospitality. 

At  Texarkana  his  car  was  switched  to  the  I.  and  G.  N. 
Then  still  southward  it  trailed  until,  at  length,  it  crawled 
across  the  Colorado  bridge  at  Austin,  and  lined  out,  straight 
n  an  arrow,  for  the  run  to  San  Antonio. 

When  the  freight  halted  at  that  town  Chicken  was  fast 
asleep.  In  ten  minutes  the  train  was  off  again  for  Laredo, 
the  end  of  the  road.  Those  empty  cattle  cars  were  for  dis 
tribution  along  the  line  at  points  from  which  the  ranches 
shipped  their  stock. 

When  Chicken  awoke  his  car  was  stationary.  Looking  out 
between  the  slats  he  saw  it  was  a  bright,  moonlit  night. 
Scrambling  out,  he  saw  his  car  with  three  others  abandoned 
on  a  little  siding  in  a  wild  and  lonesome  country.  A  cattle 
pen  and  chute  stood  on  one  side  of  the  track.  The  railroad 
bisected  a  vast,  dim  ocean  of  prairie,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Chicken,  with  his  futile  rolling  stock,  was  as  completely 
stranded  as  was  Robinson  with  his  land-locked  boat. 

A  white  post  stood  near  the  rails.     Going  up  to  it,  Chicken 


124  Roads  of  Destiny 

i-ead  the  letters  at  the  top,  S.  A.  90.  Laredo  was  nearly  as 
far  to  the  south.  He  was  almost  a  hundred  miles  from  any 
town.  Coyotes  began  to  yelp  in  the  mysterious  sea  around 
him.  Chicken  felt  lonesome.  He  had  lived  in  Boston  with 
out  an  education,  in  Chicago  without  nerve,  in  Philadelphia 
without  a  sleeping  place,  in  New  York  without  a  pull,  and  in 
Pittsburg  sober,  and  yet  he  had  never  felt  so  lonely  as  IIOAV. 

Suddenly  through  the  intense  silence,  he  he~rd  the  whicker 
of  a  horse.  The  sound  came  from  the  side  of  the  track  to 
ward  the  east,  and  Chicken  began  to  explore  limo^ously  in 
that  direction.  He  stepped  high  along  the  mat  of  curly 
mesquit  grass,  for  he  was  afraid  of  everything  there  might 
be  in  this  wilderness  —  snakes,  rats,  brigands,  centipedes, 
mirages,  cowboys,  fandangoes,  tarantulas,  tamales  —  he  had 
read  of  them  in  the  story  papers.  Roundinj  ..  clum;^  of 
prickly  pear  that  reared  high  its  fantastic  and  menacing  array 
of  rounded  heads,  he  was  struck  to  chivering  terror  by  .,  snort 
and  a  thunderous  plunge,  as  the  horse,  himself  s'.artledj 
bounded  away  some  fifty  yards,  and  then  resumed  his  graz 
ing.  But  here  was  the  one  thing  in  the  desert  that  Chicken 
did  not  fear.  He  had  been  reared  on  a  farm ;  he  had  handled 
horses,  understood  them,  and  could  ride. 

Approaching  slowly  and  speaking  soothingly,  he  followed 
the  animal,  which,  sfter  its  first  flight,  seemed  gentle 
enough,  and  secured  the  end  of  the  tv.cnty-foot  lariat  that 
dragged  after  him  in  the  grass.  It  required  him  but  a  few 
moments  to  contrive  the  rope  into  an  ingenious  nose-bridle, 
after  the  style  of  the  Mexican  borsal.  In  another  he  was 
upon  the  horse's  back  and  off  at  a  splendid  lope,  giving  the 
animal  free  choice  of  direction.  "He  will  take  me  some- 
"where,"  said  Chicken  to  himself. 

It  would  have  been  a  thing  of  joy,  that  untrammelled  gal 
lop  over  the  moonlit  prairie,  even  to  Chicken,  who  loathed 
exertion,  but  that  his  mood  vas  not  for  it.  His  head  ached; 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  125 

a  growing  thirst  was  upon  him;  the  "somewhere"  whither 
his  lucky  mount  might  convey  him  was  full  of  dismal  perad- 
venture. 

And  now  he  noted  that  the  horse  moved  to  a  definite  goal. 
Where  the  prairie  lay  smooth  he  kept  his  course  straight  as  an 
arrow's  toward  the  east.  Deflected  by  hill  or  arroyo  or  im 
practicable  spinous  brakes,  he  quickly  flowed  again  into  the 
current,  charted  by  his  unerring  instinct.  At  last,  upon  the 
side  of  a  gentle  rise,  he  suddenly  subsided  to  a  complacent 
walk.  A  stone's  cast  away  stood  a  little  mott  of  coma  trees; 
beneath  it  a  jacal  such  as  the  Mexicans  erect  —  a  one-room 
house  of  upright  poles  daubed  with  clay  and  roofed  with 
grass  or  tule  reeds.  An  experienced  eye  would  have  estimated 
the  spot  as  the  headquarters  of  a  small  sheep  ranch.  In  the 
moonlight  the  ground  in  the  nearby  corral  showed  pulverized 
to  a  level  smoothness  by  the  hoofs  of  the  sheep.  Everywhere 
was  carelessly  distributed  the  paraphernalia  of  the  place  — 
ropes,  bridles,  saddles,  sheep  pelts,  wool  sacks,  feed  troughs, 
and  camp  litter.  The  barrel  of  drinking  water  stood  in  the 
end  of  the  two-horse  wagon  near  the  door.  The  harness  was 
piled,  promiscuous,  upon  the  wagon  tongue,  soaking  up  the 
dew. 

Chicken  slipped  to  earth,  and  tied  the  horse  to  a  tree.  He 
halloed  again  and  again,  but  the  house  remained  quiet.  The 
door  stood  open,  and  he  entered  cautiously.  The  light  was 
sufficient  for  him  to  see  that  no  one  was  at  home.  He  struck 
a  match  and  lighted  a  lamp  that  stood  on  a  table.  The  room 
was  that  of  a  bachelor  ranchman  who  was  content  with  the 
necessaries  of  life.  Chicken  rummaged  intelligently  until  he 
found  what  he  had  hardly  dared  hope  for  —  a  small,  brown 
jug  that  still  contained  something  near  a  quart  of  his  desire. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Chicken  —  now  a  gamecock  of  hostile 
aspect  —  emerged  from  the  house  with  unsteady  steps.  He 
hid  drawn  upon  the  absent  ranchman's  equipment  to  replace 


126  Roads  of  Destiny 

his  own  ragged  attire.  He  wore  a  suit  of  coarse  brown 
ducking,  the  coat  being  a  sort  of  rakish  bolero,  jaunty  to  a 
degree.  Boots  he  had  donned,  and  spurs  that  whirred  with 
every  lurching  step.  Buckled  around  him  was  a  belt  full  of 
cartridges  with  a  big  six-shooter  in  each  of  its  two  holsters. 

Prowling  about,  he  found  blankets,  a  saddle  and  bridle 
with  which  he  caparisoned  his  steed.  Again  mounting,  he 
rode  swiftly  away,  singing  a  loud  and  tuneless  song. 

Bud  King's  band  of  desperadoes,  outlaws  and  horse  and 
cattle  thieves  were  in  camp  at  a  secluded  spot  on  the  bank 
of  the  Frio.  Their  depredations  in  the  Rio  Grande  coun 
try,  while  no  bolder  than  usual,  had  been  advertised  more 
extensively,  and  Captain  Kinney's  company  of  rangers  had 
been  ordered  down  to  look  after  them.  Consequently,  Bud 
King,  who  was  a  wise  general,  instead  of  cutting  out  a  hot 
trail  for  the  upholders  of  the  law,  as  his  men  wished  to  do, 
retired  for  the  time  to  the  prickly  fastnesses  of  the  Frio  valley. 

Though  the  move  was  a  prudent  one,  and  not  incompatible 
with  Bud's  well-known  courage,  it  raised  dissension  among 
the  members  of  the  band.  In  fact,  while  they  thus  lay  in- 
gloriously  perdu  in  the  brush,  the  question  of  Bud  King's  fit 
ness  for  the  leadership  was  argued,  with  closed  doors,  as  it 
were,  by  his  followers.  Never  before  had  Bud's  skill  or 
efficiency  been  brought  to  criticism;  but  his  glory  was  wan 
ing  (and  such  is  glory's  fate)  in  the  light  of  a  newer  star. 
The  sentiment  of  the  band  was  crystallizing  into  the  opinion 
that  Black  Eagle  could  lead  them  with  more  lustre,  profit, 
and  distinction. 

This  Black  Eagle  —  sub-titled  the  "Terror  of  the  Border" 
—  had  been  a  member  of  the  gang  about  three  months. 

One  night  while  they  were  in  camp  on  the  San  Miguel 
water-hole  a  solitary  horseman  on  the  regulation  fiery  stted 
dashed  in  among  them.  The  newcomer  was  of  a  portentous 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  127 

and  devastating  aspect.  A  beak-like  nose  with  a  predatory 
curve  projected  above  a  mass  of  bristling,  blue-black  whis 
kers.  His  eye  was  cavernous  and  fierce.  He  was  spurred, 
sombreroed,  booted,  garnished  with  revolvers,  abundantly 
drunk,  and  very  much  unafraid.  Few  people  in  the  country 
drained  by  the  Rio  Bravo  would  have  cared  thus  to  invade 
alone  the  camp  of  Bud  King,  But  this  fell  bird  swooped 
fearlessly  upon  them  and  demanded  to  be  fed. 

Hospitality  in  the  prairie  country  is  not  limited.  Even  if 
your  enemy  pass  your  way  you  must  feed  him  before  you  shoot 
him.  You  must  empty  your  larder  into  him  before  you  empty 
your  lead.  So  the  stranger  of  undeclared  intentions  was  set 
down  to  a  mighty  feast. 

A  talkative  bird  he  was,  full  of  most  marvellous  loud  tales 
and  exploits,  and  speaking  a  language  at  times  obscure  but 
never  colourless.  He  was  a  new  sensation  to  Bud  King's  men, 
who  rarely  encountered  new  types.  They  hung,  delighted, 
upon  his  vainglorious  boasting,  the  spicy  strangeness  of  his 
lingo,  his  contemptuous  familiarity  with  life,  the  world,  and 
remote  places,  and  the  extravagant  frankness  with  which  he 
conveyed  his  sentiments. 

To  their  guest  the  band  of  outlaws  seemed  to  be  nothing 
more  than  a  congregation  of  country  bumpkins  whom  he  was 
"stringing  for  grub"  just  as  he  would  have  told  his  stories 
at  the  back  door  of  a  farmhouse  to  wheedle  a  meal.  And, 
indeed,  his  ignorance  was  not  without  excuse,  for  the  "bad 
man"  of  the  Southwest  does  not  run  to  extremes.  Those 
brigands  might  justly  have  been  taken  for  a  little  party  of 
peaceable  rustics  assembled  for  a  fish-fry  or  pecan  gather 
ing.  Gentle  of  manner,  slouching  of  gait,  soft-voiced,  un- 
picturesquely  clothed;  not  one  of  them  presented  to  the  eye 
any  witness  of  the  desperate  records  they  had  earned. 

For  two  days  the  glittering  stranger  within  the  camp  was 
feasted.  Then,  by  common  consent,  he  was  invited  to  become 


128  Roads  of  Destiny 

a  member  of  the  band.  He  consented,  presenting  for  en 
rollment  the  prodigious  name  of  "Captain  Montressor."  This 
name  was  immediately  overruled  by  the  band,  and  "Piggy" 
substitued  as  a  compliment  to  the  awful  and  insatiate  appe 
tite  of  its  owner. 

Thus  did  the  Texas  border  receive  the  most  spectacular 
brigand  that  ever  rode  its  chaparral. 

For  the  next  three  months  Bud  King  conducted  business 
as  usual,  escaping  encounters  with  law  officers  and  being  con 
tent  with  reasonable  profits.  The  band  ran  off  some  very 
good  companies  of  horses  from  the  ranges,  and  a  few  bunches 
of  fine  cattle  which  they  got  safely  across  the  Rio  Grande 
and  disposed  of  to  fair  advantage.  Often  the  band  would 
ride  into  the  little  villages  and  Mexican  settlements,  terror 
izing  the  inhabitants  and  plundering  for  the  provisions  and 
ammunition  they  needed.  It  was  during  these  bloodless  raids 
that  Piggy's  ferocious  aspect  and  frightful  voice  gained  him 
a  renown  more  widespread  and  glorious  than  those  other  gen 
tle-voiced  and  sad-faced  desperadoes  could  have  acquired  in 
a  lifetime. 

The  Mexicans,  most  apt  in  nomenclature,  first  called  him 
The  Black  Eagle,  and  used  to  frighten  the  babes  by  threat 
ening  them  with  tales  of  the  dreadful  robber  who  carried  off 
little  children  in  his  great  beak.  Soon  the  name  extended, 
and  Black  Eagle,  the  Terror  of  the  Border,  became  a  recog 
nized  factor  in  exaggerated  newspaper  reports  and  ranch 
gossip. 

The  country  from  the  Nueces  to  the  Rio  Grande  was  a 
wild  but  fertile  stretch,  given  over  to  the  sheep  and  cattle 
ranches.  Range  was  free;  the  inhabitants  were  few;  the  law 
was  mainly  a  letter,  and  the  pirates  met  with  little  opposition 
until  the  flaunting  and  garish  Piggy  gave  the  band  undue 
advertisement.  Then  McKinney's  ranger  company  headed 
for  those  precincts,  and  Bud  King  knew  that  it  meant  grim 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  129 

and  sudden  war  or  else  temporary  retirement.  Regarding  the 
risk  to  be  unnecessary,  he  drew  off  his  Band  to  an  almost 
inaccessible  spot  on  the  bank  of  the  Frio.  Wherefore,  as  has 
been  said,  dissatisfaction  arose  among  the  members,  and  im 
peachment  proceedings  against  Bud  were  premeditated,  with 
Black  Eagle  in  high  favour  for  the  succession.  Bud  King 
was  not  unaware  of  the  sentiment,  and  he  called  aside  Cactus 
Taylor,  his  trusted  lieutenant,  to  discuss  it. 

"If  the  boys/*  said  Bud,  "ain't  satisfied  with  me,  I'm 
willin'  to  step  out.  They're  buckin'  against  my  way  of 
handlin'  'em.  And  'specially  because  I  concludes  to  hit  the 
brush  while  Sam  Kinney  is  ridin'  the  line.  I  saves  'em  from 
bein'  shot  or  sent  up  on  a  state  contract,  and  they  up  and  says 
I'm  no  good." 

"It  ain't  so  much  that,"  explained  Cactus,  "as  it  is  they're 
plum  locoed  about  Piggy.  They  want  them  whiskers  and 
that  nose  of  his  to  split  the  wind  at  the  head  of  the  column." 

"There's  somethin'  mighty  seldom  about  Piggy,"  declared 
Bud,  musingly.  "I  never  yet  see  anything  on  the  hoof  that 
he  exactly  grades  up  with.  He  can  shore  holler  a  plenty, 
and  he  straddles  a  hoss  from  where  you  laid  the  chunk.  But 
he  ain't  never  been  smoked  yet.  You  know,  Cactus,  we  ain't 
had  a  row  since  he's  been  with  us.  Piggy's  all  right  for 
skearin'  the  greaser  kids  and  layin'  waste  a  cross-roads  store. 
I  reckon  he's  the  finest  canned  oyster  buccaneer  and  cheese 
pirate  that  ever  was,  but  how's  his  appetite  for  fightin'?  I've 
knowed  some  citizens  you'd  think  was  starvin'  for  trouble 
get  a  bad  case  of  dyspepsy  the  first  dose  of  lead  they  had 
to  take." 

"He  talks  all  spraddled  out,"  said  Cactus.  "  'bout  the 
rookuses  he's  been  in.  He  claims  to  have  saw  the  elephant 
and  hearn  the  owl." 

"I  know."  replied  Bud,  using  the  cowpuncher's  expressive 
phrase  of  skepticism,  "but  it  sounds  to  me!" 


130  Roads  of  Destiny 

This  conversation  was  held  one  night  in  camp  while  the 
other  members  of  the  band  —  eight  in  number  —  were  sprawl 
ing  around  the  fire,  lingering  over  their  supper.  When  Bud 
and  Cactus  ceased  talking  they  heard  Piggy's  formidable 
voice  holding  forth  to  the  others  as  usual  while  he  was  engaged 
in  checking^  though  never  satisfying,  his  ravening  appetite. 

"Wat's  de  use/'  he  was  saying,  "of  chasin'  little  red 
cowses  and  hosses  'round  for  t'ousands  of  miles?  Dere  ain't 
nuttin'  in  it.  Gallopin'  t'rough  dese  bushes  and  briers,  and 
gettin'  a  t'irst  dat  a  brewery  couldn't  put  out,  and  missin' 
meals!  Say!  You  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  was  main  finger 
of  dis  bunch?  I'd  stick  up  a  train.  I'd  blow  de  express  car 
and  make  hard  dollars  where  you  guys  gets  wind.  Youse 
makes  me  tired.  Dis  sook-cow  kind  of  cheap  sport  gives  me 
a  pain." 

Later  on,  a  deputation  waited  on  Bud.  They  stood  on  one 
leg,  chewed  mesquit  twigs  and  circumlocuted,  for  they  hated 
to  hurt  his  feelings.  Bud  foresaw  their  business,  and  made 
it  easy  for  them.  Bigger  risks  and  larger  profits  was  what 
they  wanted. 

The  suggestion  of  Piggy's  about  holding  up  a  train  had 
fired  their  imagination  and  increased  their  admiration  for  the 
dash  and  boldness  of  the  instigator.  They  were  such  simple, 
artless,  and  custom-bound  bush-rangers  that  they  had  nevei 
before  thought  of  extending  their  habits  beyond  the  running 
off  of  live-stock  and  the  shooting  of  such  of  their  acquaint 
ances  as  ventured  to  interfere. 

Bud  acted  "on  the  level,"  agreeing  to  take  a  subordinate 
place  in  the  gang  until  Black  Eagle  should  have  been  given 
a  trial  as  leader. 

After  a  great  deal  of  consultation,  studying  of  time-tables, 
and  discussion  of  the  country's  topography,  the  time  and  place 
for  carrying  out  their  new  enterprise  was  decided  upon.  At 
that  time  there  was  a  feedstuff  famine  in  Mexico  and  a  cattle 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  131 

famine  in  certain  parts  of  the  United  States,  and  there  was  a 
brisk  international  trade.  Much  money  was  being  shipped 
along  the  railroads  that  connected  the  two  republics.  It  was 
agreed  that  the  most  promising  place  for  the  contemplated 
robbery  was  at  Espina,  a  little  station  on  the  I.  and  G.  N., 
about  forty  miles  north  of  Laredo.  The  train  stopped  there 
one  minute;  the  country  around  was  wild  and  unsettled;  the 
station  consisted  of  but  one  house  in  which  the  agent  lived. 

Black  Eagle's  band  set  out,  riding  by  night.  Arriving  in 
the  vicinity  of  Espina  they  rested  their  horses  all  day  in  a 
thicket  a  few  miles  distant. 

The  train  was  due  at  Espina  at  10.30  P.M.  They  could  rob 
the  train  and  be  well  over  the  Mexican  border  with  their  booty 
by  daylight  the  next  morning. 

To  do  Black  Eagle  justice,  he  exhibited  no  signs  of  flinch 
ing  from  the  responsible  honours  that  had  been  conferred 
upon  him. 

He  assigned  his  men  to  their  respective  posts  with  dis 
cretion,  and  coached  them  carefully  as  to  their  duties.  On 
each  side  of  the  track  four  of  the  band  were  to  lie  concealed 
in  the  chaparral.  Gotch-Ear  Rodgers  was  to  stick  up  the 
station  agent.  Bronco  Charlie  was  to  remain  with  the  horses, 
holding  them  in  readiness.  At  a  spot  where  it  was  calculated 
the  engine  would  be  when  the  train  stoped,  Bud  King  was 
to  lie  hidden  on  one  side,  and  Black  Eagle  himself  on  the 
other.  The  two  would  get  the  drop  on  the  engineer  and 
fireman,  force  them  to  descend  and  proceed  to  the  rear.  Then 
the  express  car  would  be  looted,  and  the  escape  made.  No 
one  was  to  move  until  Black  Eagle  gave  the  signal  by  firing 
his  revolver.  The  plan  was  perfect. 

At  ten  minutes  to  train  time  every  man  was  at  his  post, 
effectually  concealed  by  the  thick  chaparral  that  grew  almost 
to  the  rails.  The  night  was  dark  and  lowering,  with  a  fine 
drizzle  falling  from  the  flying  gulf  clouds.  Black  Eagle 


132  Roads  of  Destiny 

crouched  behind  a  bush  within  five  yards  of  the  track.  Two 
six-shooters  were  belted  around  him.  Occasionally  he  drew  a 
large  black  bottle  from  his  pocket  and  raised  it  to  his  mouth. 

A  star  appeared  far  down  the  track  which  soon  waxed  into 
the  headlight  of  the  approaching  train.  It  came  on  with  an 
increasing  roar;  the  engine  bore  down  upon  the  ambushing 
desperadoes  with  a  glare  and  a  shriek  like  some  avenging 
monster  come  to  deliver  them  to  justice.  Black  Eagle  flat 
tened  himself  upon  the  ground.  The  engine,  contrary  to  their 
calculations,  instead  of  stopping  between  him  and  Bud  King's 
place  of  concealment,  passed  fully  forty  yards  farther  before 
it  came  to  a  stand. 

The  bandit  leader  rose  to  his  feet  and  peered  around  the 
bush.  His  men  all  lay  quiet,  awaiting  the  signal.  Immedi 
ately  opposite  Black  Eagle  was  a  thing  that  drew  his  atten 
tion.  Instead  of  being  a  regular  passenger  train  it  was  a 
mixed  one.  Before  him  stood  a  box  car,  the  door  of  which, 
by  some  means,  had  been  left  slightly  open.  Black  Eagle 
went  up  to  it  and  pushed  the  door  farther  open.  An  odour 
came  forth  —  a  damp,  rancid,  familiar,  musty,  intoxicating, 
beloved  odour  stirring  strongly  at  old  memories  of  happy 
days  and  travels.  Black  Eagle  sniffed  at  the  witching  smell 
as  the  returned  wanderer  smells  of  the  rose  that  twines  his 
boyhood's  cottage  home.  Nostalgia  seized  him.  He  put  his 
hand  inside.  Excelsior  —  dry,  springy,  curly,  soft,  enti 
cing,  covered  the  floor.  Outside  the  drizzle  had  turned  to  a 
chilling  rain. 

The  train  bell  clanged.  The  bandit  chief  unbuckled  his 
belt  and  cast  it,  with  its  revolvers,  upon  the  ground.  His 
spurs  followed  quickly,  and  his  broad  sombrero.  Black 
Eagle  was  moulting.  The  train  started  with  a  rattling  jerk. 
The  ex-Terror  of  the  Border  scrambled  into  the  box  car  and 
closed  the  door.  Stretched  luxuriously  upon  the  excelsior, 
With  the  black  bottle  clasped  closely  to  his  breast,  his  eyes 


The  Passing  of  Black  Eagle  133 

closed,  and  a  foolish,  happy  smile  upon  his  terrible  features 
Chicken  Ruggles  started  upon  his  return  trip. 

Undisturbed,  with  the  band  of  desperate  bandits  lying 
motionless,  awaiting  the  signal  to  attack,  the  train  pulled  out 
from  Espina.  As  its  speed  increased,  and  the  black  masses 
of  chaparral  went  whizzing  past  on  either  side,  the  express 
messenger,  lighting  his  pipe,  looked  through  his  window  and 
remarked,  feelingly: 

"What  a  jim-dandy  place  for  a  hold-up!" 


A  RETRIEVED  REFORMATION 

A  GUARD  came  to  the  prison  shoe-shop,  where  Jimmy 
Valentine  was  assiduously  stitching  uppers,  and  escorted  him 
to  the  front  office.  There  the  warden  handed  Jimmy  his  par 
don,  which  had  been  signed  that  morning  by  the  governor. 
Jimmy  took  it  in  a  tired  kind  of  way.  He  had  served  nearly 
ten  months  of  a  four-year  sentence.  He  had  expected  to 
stay  only  about  three  months,  at  the  longest.  When  a  man 
with  as  many  friends  on  the  outside  as  Jimmy  Valentine  had 
is  received  in  the  "stir"  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  cut  his 
hair. 

"Now,  Valentine,"  said  the  warden,  "you'll  go  out  in  the 
morning.  Brace  up,  and  make  a  man  of  yourself.  You're 
not  a  bad  fellow  at  heart.  Stop  cracking  safes,  and  live 
straight." 

"Me?"  said  Jimmy,  in  surprise.  "Why,  I  never  cracked 
a  safe  in  my  life." 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  the  warden.  "Of  course  not.  Let's 
see,  now.  How  was  it  you  happened  to  get  sent  up  on  that 
Springfield  job?  Was  it  because  you  wouldn't  prove  an 
alibi  for  fear  of  compromising  somebody  in  extremely  high- 
toned  society?  Or  was  it  simply  a  case  of  a  mean  old  jury 
that  had  it  in  for  you  ?  It's  always  one  or  the  other  with  you 
innocent  victims." 

"Me?"  said  Jimmy,  still  blankly  virtuous.  "Why,  war 
den,  I  never  was  in  Springfield  in  my  life!" 

"Take  him  back,  Cronin,"  smiled  the  warden,  "and  fix 

134 


A  Retrieved  Reformation  135 

him  up  with  outgoing  clothes.  Unlock  him  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  and  let  him  come  to  the  bull-pen.  Better  think  over 
my  advice,  Valentine." 

At  a  quarter  past  seven  on  the  next  morning  Jimmy  stood 
in  the  warden's  outer  office.  He  had  on  a  suit  of  the  villain 
ously  fitting,  ready-made  clothes  and  a  pair  of  the  stiff, 
squeaky  shoes  that  the  state  furnishes  to  its  discharged  com 
pulsory  guests. 

The  clerk  handed  him  a  railroad  ticket  and  the  five-dollar 
bill  with  which  the  law  expected  him  to  rehabilitate  himself 
|nto  good  citizenship  and  prosperity.  The  warden  gave  him 
a  cigar,  and  shook  hands.  Valentine,  9762,  was  chronicled 
on  the  books  "Pardoned  by  Governor/'  and  Mr.  James  Val 
entine  walked  out  into  the  sunshine. 

Disregarding  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  waving  green  trees, 
and  the  smell  of  the  flowers,  Jimmy  headed  straight  for  a 
restaurant.  There  he  tasted  the  first  sweet  joys  of  liberty 
in  the  shape  of  a  broiled  chicken  and  a  bottle  of  white  wine 
—  followed  by  a  cigar  a  grade  better  than  the  one  the  war 
den  had  given  him.  From  there  he  proceeded  leisurely  to 
the  depot.  He  tossed  a  quarter  into  the  hat  of  a  blind  man 
sitting  by  the  door,  and  boarded  his  train.  Three  hours  set 
him  down  in  a  little  town  near  the  state  line.  He  went  to 
the  cafe  of  one  Mike  Dolan  and  shook  hands  with  Mike,  who 
was  alone  behind  the  bar. 

"Sorry  we  couldn't  make  it  sooner,  Jimmy,  me  boy/'  said 
Mike.  "But  we  had  that  protest  from  Springfield  to  buck 
against,  and  the  governor  nearly  balked.  Feeling  all  right?" 

"Fine,"  said  Jimmy.     "Got  my  key?" 

He  got  his  key  and  went  up-stairs,  unlocking  the  door  of 
a  room  at  the  rear.  Everything  was  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
There  on  the  floor  was  still  Ben  Price's  collar-button  that  had 
been  torn  from  that  eminent  detective's  shirt-band  when  they 
had  overpowered  Jimmy  to  arrest  him. 


136  Roads  of  Destiny 

Pulling  out  from  the  wall  a  folding-bed,  Jimmy  slid  back 
a  panel  in  the  wall  and  dragged  out  a  dust-covered  suit-case. 
He  opened  this  and  gazed  fondly  at  the  finest  set  of  bur 
glar's  tools  in  the  East.  It  was  a  complete  set,  made  of  spe 
cially  tempered  steel,  the  latest  designs  in  drills,  punches, 
braces  and  bits,  jimmies,  clamps,  and  augers,  with  two  or 
three  novelties,  invented  by  Jimmy  himself,  in  which  he  took 
pride.  Over  nine  hundred  dollars  they  had  cost  him  to  have 

made  at  ,  a  place  where  they  make  such  things  for  the 

profession. 

In  half  an  hour  Jimmy  went  down  stairs  and  through  the 
cafe.  He  was  now  dressed  in  tasteful  and  well-fitting 
clothes,  and  carried  his  dusted  and  cleaned  suit-case  in  his 
hand. 

"Got  anything  on?"  asked  Mike  Dolan,  genially. 

"Me?"  said  Jimmy,  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "I  don't  under 
stand.  I'm  representing  the  New  York  Amalgamated  Short 
Snap  Biscuit  Cracker  and  Frazzled  Wheat  Company." 

This  statement  delighted  Mike  to  such  an  extent  that  Jimmy 
had  to  take  a  seltzer-and-milk  on  the  spot.  He  never  touched 
"hard"  drinks. 

A  week  after  the  release  of  Valentine,  9762,  there  was  a 
neat  job  of  safe-burglary  done  in  Richmond,  Indiana,  with 
no  clue  to  the  author.  A  scant  eight  hundred  dollars  was  all 
that  was  secured.  Two  weeks  after  that  a  patented,  im 
proved,  burglar-proof  safe  in  Logansport  was  opened  like 
a  cheese  to  the  tune  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  cur^ncy; 
securities  and  silver  untouched.  That  began  to  interest  the 
rogue-catchers.  Then  an  old-fashioned  bank-safe  in  Jeffer 
son  City  became  active  and  threw  out  of  its  crater  an  erup 
tion  of  bank-notes  amounting  to  five  thousand  dollars.  The 
losses  were  now  high  enough  to  bring  the  matter  up  into 
Ben  Price's  class  of  work.  By  comparing  notes,  a  remark 
able  similarity  in  the  methods  of  the  burglaries  was  noticed. 


rA  Retrieved  Reformation  137 

Ben  Price  investigated  the  scenes  of  the  robberies,  and  was 
heard  to  remark: 

"That's  Dandy  Jim  Valentine's  autograph.  He's  resumed 
business.  Look  at  that  combination  knob  —  j  erked  out  as 
easy  as  pulling  up  a  radish  in  wet  weather.  He's  got  the 
only  clamps  that  can  do  it.  And  look  how  clean  those 
tumblers  were  punched  out!  Jimmy  never  has  to  drill  but 
one  hole.  Yes,  I  guess  I  want  Mr.  Valentine.  He'll  do  his 
bit  next  time  without  any  short-time  or  clemency  foolish 
ness." 

Ben  Price  knew  Jimmy's  habits.  He  had  learned  them, 
while  working  up  the  Springfield  case.  Long  jumps,  quick 
get-aways,  no  confederates,  and  a  taste  for  good  society  — 
these  ways  had  helped  Mr.  Valentine  to  become  noted  as  a 
successful  dodger  of  retribution.  It  was  given  out  that  Ben 
Price  had  taken  up  the  trail  of  the  elusive  cracksman,  and 
other  people  with  burglar-proof  safes  felt  more  at  ease. 

One  afternoon  Jimmy  Valentine  and  his  suit-case  climbed 
out  of  the  mail-hack  in  Elmore,  a  little  town  five  miles  off 
the  railroad  down  in  the  black-jack  country  of  Arkansas. 
Jimmy,  looking  like  an  athletic  young  senior  just  home  from 
college,  went  down  the  board  side-walk  toward  the  hotel. 

A  young  lady  crossed  the  street,  passed  him  at  the  corner 
and  entered  a  door  over  which  was  the  sign  "The  Elmore 
Bank."  Jimmy  Valentine  looked  into  her  eyes,  forgot  what 
he  was,  and  hecame  another  man.  She  lowered  her  eyes  and 
coloured  slightly.  Young  men  of  Jimmy's  style  and  looks 
were  scarce  in  Elmore. 

Jimmy  collared  a  boy  that  was  loafing  on  the  steps  of  the 
bank  as  if  lie  were  one  of  the  stockholders,  and  began  to 
ask  him  questions  about  the  town,  feeding  him  dimes  at  inter 
vals.  3y  and  by  the  young  lady  came  out,  looking  royally 
unconscious  of  the  young  man  with  the  suit-case,  and  went 
her  way. 


138  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Isn't  that  young  lady  Miss  Polly  Simpson?"  asked  Jimmy, 
with  specious  guile. 

"Naw,"  said  the  boy.  "She's  Annabel  Adams.  Her  pa 
owns  this  bank.  What'd  you  come  to  Elmore  for?  Is  that 
a  gold  watch-chain?  I'm  going  to  get  a  bulldog.  Got  any 
more  dimes?" 

Jimmy  went  to  the  Planters'  Hotel,  registered  as  Ralph 
D.  Spencer,  and  engaged  a  room.  He  leaned  on  the  desk 
and  declared  his  platform  to  the  clerk.  He  said  he  had  come 
to  Elmore  to  look  for  a  location  to  go  into  business.  How 
was  the  shoe  business,  now,  in  the  town?  He  had  thought 
of  the  shoe  business.  Was  there  i»n  opening? 

The  clerk  was  impressed  by  the  clothes  and  manner  of 
Jimmy.  He,  himself,  was  something  of  a  pattern  of  fash 
ion  to  the  thinly  gilded  youth  of  Elmore,  but  he  now  per 
ceived  his  shortcomings.  While  trying  to  figure  out  Jimmy's 
manner  of  tying  his  four-in-hand  he  cordially  gave  informa 
tion. 

Yes,  there  ought  to  be  a  good  opening  in  the  shoe  line. 
There  wasn't  an  exclusive  shoe-store  in  the  place.  The  dry- 
goods  and  general  stores  handled  them.  Business  in  all  lines 
was  fairly  good.  Hoped  Mr.  Spencer  would  decide  to  locate 
in  Elmore.  He  would  find  it  a  pleasant  town  to  live  in,  and 
the  people  very  sociable. 

Mr.  Spencer  thought  he  would  stop  over  in  the  town  A 
few  days  and  look  over  the  situation.  No,  the  clerk  needn't 
call  the  boy.  He  would  carry  up  his  suit-case,  himself;  it 
was  rather  heavy. 

Mr.  Ralph  Spencer,  the  phoenix  that  arose  from  Jimmy 
Valentine's  ashes  —  ashes  left  by  the  flame  of  a  sudden  and 
alterative  attack  of  love  —  remained  in  Elmore,  and  pros 
pered.  He  opened  a  shoe-store  and  secured  a  good  run  of 
trade. 

Socially  he  was  also  a  success,  and  made  many   friends. 


A  Retrieved  Reformation  139 

And  he  accomplished  the  wish  of  his  heart.  He  met  Miss 
Annabel  Adams,  and  became  more  and  more  captivated  by 
her  charms. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  the  situation  of  Mr.  Ralph  Spencer 
was  this:  he  had  won  the  respect  of  the  community,  his  shoe- 
store  was  flourishing,  and  he  and  Annabel  were  engaged  to 
be  married  in  two  weeks.  Mr.  Adams,  the  typical,  plod* 
ding,  country  banker,  approved  of  Spencer.  Annabel's  pride 
in  him  almost  equalled  her  affection.  He  was  as  much  at 
home  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Adams  and  that  of  Annabel's  mar 
ried  sister  as  if  he  were  already  a  member. 

One  day  Jimmy  sat  down  in  his  room  and  wrote  this  let<* 
ter,  which  he  mailed  to  the  safe  address  of  one  of  his  old 
friends  in  St.  Louis : 

DEAR  OLD  PAL: 

I  want  you  to  be  at  Sullivan's  place,  in  Little  Rock,  next  Wednes 
day  night,  at  nine  o'clock.  I  want  you  to  wind  up  some  little  mat 
ters  for  me.  And,  also,  I  want  to  make  you  a  present  of  my  kit  of 
tools.  I  know  you'll  be  glad  to  get  them  —  you  couldn't  duplicate 
the  lot  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Say,  Billy,  I've  quit  the  old  busi 
ness  —  a  year  ago.  I've  got  a  nice  store.  I'm  making  an  honest  liv 
ing,  and  I'm  going  to  marry  the  finest  girl  on  earth  two  weeks  from 
now.  It's  the  only  life,  Billy  —  the  straight  one.  I  wouldn't  touch 
a  dollar  of  another  man's  money  now  for  a  million.  After  I  get 
married  I'm  going  to  sell  out  and  go  West,  where  there  won't  be  so 
much  danger  of  having  old  scores  brought  up  against  me.  I  teli 
you,  Billy,  she's  an  angel.  She  believes  in  me;  and  I  wouldn't  do 
another  crooked  thing  for  the  whole  world.  Be  sure  to  be  at  Sully\ 
for  I  must  see  you.  I'll  bring  along  the  tools  with  me. 

Your  old  friend, 

JIMMY. 

On  the  Monday  night  after  Jimmy  wrote  this  letter,  Ben 
Price  jogged  unobtrusively  into  Elmore  in  a  livery  buggy. 
He  lounged  about  town  in  his  quiet  way  until  he  found  out 
what  he  wanted  to  know.  From  the  drug-store  across  the 


140  Roads  of  Destiny 

street  from  Spencer's  shoe-store  he  got  a  good  look  at  Ralph 
D.  Spencer. 

"Going  to  marry  the  banker's  daughter  are  you,  Jimmy?" 
said  Ben  to  himself^  softly.  "Well,  I  don't  know!" 

The  next  morning  Jimmy  took  breakfast  at  the  Adamses. 
He  was  going  to  Little  Rock  that  day  to  order  his  wedding- 
suit  and  buy  something  nice  for  Annabel.  That  would  be 
the  first  time  he  had  left  town  since  he  came  to  Elmore.  It 
had  been  more  than  a  year  now  since  those  last  professional 
"jobs,"  and  he  thought  he  could  safely  venture  out. 

After  breakfast  quite  n  family  party  went  downtown  to 
gether  —  Mr.  Adams,  Annabel,  Jimmy,  and  Annabel's  mar 
ried  sister  with  her  two  little  girls,  aged  five  and  nine.  They 
came  by  the  hotel  where  Jimmy  still  boarded,  and  he  ran 
up  to  his  room  and  brought  along  his  suit-case.  Then  they 
went  on  to  the  bank.  There  stood  Jimmy's  horse  and  buggy 
and  Dolph  Gibson,  who  was  going  to  drive  him  over  to  the 
railroad  station. 

All  went  inside  the  high,  carved  oak  railings  into  the  bank 
ing-room  —  Jimmy  included,  for  Mr.  Adams's  future  son- 
in-law  was  welcome  anywhere.  The  clerks  were  pleased  to 
be  greeted  by  the  good-looking,  agreeable  young  man  who 
was  going  to  marry  Miss  Annabel.  Jimmy  set  his  suit-case 
down.  Annabel,  whose  heart  was  bubbling  with  happiness 
and  lively  youth,  put  on  Jimmy's  hat,  and  picked  up  the 
suit-case.  "Wouldn't  I  make  a  nice  drummer?"  said  Anna 
bel.  "My!  Ralph,  how  heavy  it  is?  Feels  like  it  was  full 
of  gold  bricks." 

"Lot  of  nickel-plated  shoe-horns  in  there,"  said  Jimmy, 
coolly,  "that  I'm  going  to  return.  Thought  I'd  save  ex 
press  charges  by  taking  them  up.  I'm  getting  awfully  eco 
nomical." 

The  Elmore  Bank  had  just  put  in  a  new  safe  and  vault. 
Mr.  Adams  was  very  proud  of  it,  and  insisted  on  an  inspec- 


A  Retrieved  Reformation  141 

tion  by  every  one.  The  vault  was  a  small  one,  but  it  had  a 
new,  patented  door.  It  fastened  with  three  solid  steel  bolts 
thrown  simultaneously  with  a  single  handle,  and  had  a  time- 
lock.  Mr.  Adams  beamingly  explained  its  workings  to  Mr. 
Spencer,  who  showed  a  courteous  but  not  too  intelligent  in 
terest.  The  two  children,  May  and  Agatha,  were  delighted 
by  the  shining  metal  and  funny  clock  and  knobs. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  Ben  Price  sauntered  in  and 
leaned  on  his  elbow,  looking  casually  inside  between  the  rail 
ings.  He  told  the  teller  that  he  didn't  want  anything;  he 
Was  just  waiting  for  a  man  he  knew. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  scream  or  two  from  the  women,  and 
a  commotion.  Unperceived  by  the  elders,  May,  the  nine- 
year-old  girl,  in  a  spirit  of  play,  had  shut  Agatha  in  the  vault. 
She  had  then  shot  the  bolts  and  turned  the  knob  of  the  com 
bination  as  she  had  seen  Mr.  Adams  do. 

T"ie  old  banker  sprang  to  the  handle  and  tugged  at  it  for 
a  moment.  "The  door  can't  be  opened,"  he  groaned.  "The 
clock  hasn't  been  wound  nor  the  combination  set." 

Agatha's  mother  screamed  again,  hysterically. 

"Huch !"  said  Mr.  Adams,  raising  his  trembling  hand.  "All 
be  quiet  for  a  moment.  Agatha!"  he  called  as  loudly  as  he 
could.  "Listen  to  me."  During  the  following  silence  they 
could  just  hear  the  faint  sound  of  the  child  wildly  shrieking  ir 
the  dark  vault  in  a  panic  of  terror. 

"My  precious  darling!"  wailed  the  mother.  "She  will  di^ 
of  fright!  Open  the  door!  Oh,  break  it  open!  Can't  you 
men  do  something?" 

"There  isn't  a  man  nearer  than  Little  Rock  who  can  open 
that  door,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  in  a  shaky  voice.  "My  God! 
Spencer,  what  shall  we  do?  That  child  —  she  can't  stand 
L«  long  in  there.  There  isn't  enough  air,  and,  besides,  she'll 
go  into  convulsions  from  fright." 

Agaths '«  mother,  frantic  now,,  beat  the  door  of  the  vault 


142  Roads  of  Destiny 

with  her  hands.  Somebody  wildly  suggested  dynamite.  An 
nabel  turned  to  Jimmy,  her  large  eyes  full  of  anguish,  but 
not  yet  despairing.  To  a  woman  nothing  seems  quite  impos 
sible  to  the  powers  of  the  man  she  worships. 

"Can't  you  do  something,,  Ralph  —  try,  won't  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  queer,  soft  smile  on  his  lips  and 
in  his  keen  eyes. 

"Annabel,"  he  said,  "give  me  that  rose  you  are  wearing, 
will  you  ?" 

Hardly  believing  that  she  heard  him  aright,  she  unpinned 
the  bud  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  placed  it  in  his 
hand.  Jimmy  stuffed  it  into  his  vest-pocket,  threw  off  his 
coat  and  pulled  up  his  shirt-sleeves.  With  that  act  Ralph 
D.  Spencer  passed  away  and  Jimmy  Valentine  took  his  place. 

"Get  away  from  the  door,  all  of  you,"  he  commanded, 
shortly. 

He  set  his  suit-case  on  the  table,  and  opened  it  out  flat, 
From  that  time  on  he  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  the  pres 
ence  of  any  one  else.  He  laid  out  the  shining,  queer  imple 
ments  swiftly  and  orderly,  whistling  softly  to  himself  as  he 
always  did  when  at  work.  In  a  deep  silence  and  immovable, 
the  others  watched  him  as  if  under  a  spell. 

In  a  minute  Jimmy's  pet  drill  was  biting  smoothly  into  the 
steel  door.  In  ten  minutes  —  breaking  his  own  burglarious 
record  —  he  threw  back  the  bolts  and  opened  the  door. 

Agatha,  almost  collapsed,  but  safe,  was  gathered  into  her 
mother's  arms. 

Jimmy  Valentine  put  on  his  coat,  and  walked  outside  the 
railings  toward  the  front  door.  As  he  went  he  thought  he 
heard  a  far-away  voice  that  he  once  knew  call  "Ralph!" 
But  he  never  hesitated. 

At  the  door  a  big  man  stood  somewhat  in  his  way. 

"Hello,   Ben!"   said   Jimmy,   still   with   his   strange   smile. 


A  Retrieved  Reformation  148 

"Got  around  at  last,  have  you  ?  Well,  let's  go.  I  don't  know 
that  it  makes  much  difference,  now." 

And  then  Ben  Price  acted  rather  strangely. 

"Guess  you're  mistaken,  Mr.  Spencer,"  he  said.  "Don't 
believe  I  recognize  you.  Your  buggy's  waiting  for  you, 
ain't  it?" 

And  Ben  Price  turned  and  strolled  down  the  street. 


XI 

CHERCHEZ  LA  FEMME 

IVOBBINS,  reporter  for  the  Picayune,  and  Dumars,  of 
L'Abeille  —  the  old  French  newspaper  that  has  buzzed  for 
nearly  a  century  —  were  good  friends,  well  proven  by  years 
of  ups  and  downs  together.  They  were  seated  where  they 
had  a  habit  of  meeting  —  in  the  little,  Creole-haunted  cafe 
of  Madame  Tibault,  in  Dumaine  Street.  If  you  know  the 
place,  you  will  experience  a  thrill  of  pleasure  in  recalling 
it  to  mind.  It  is  small  and  dark,  with  six  little  polished 
tables,  at  which  you  may  sit  and  drink  the  be  it  coffee  in 
New  Orleans,  and  concoctions  of  absinthe  equal  io  Sazerac's 
best.  Madame  Tibault,  fat  and  indulgent,  presides  at  the 
desk,  and  takes  your  money.  Nicolette  and  Meme,  madame's 
nieces,  in  charming  bib  aprons,  bring  the  desirable  beverages. 
Dumars,  with  true  Creole  luxury,  was  sipping  his  absinthe, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  in  a  swirl  of  cigarette  smoke.  Rob- 
bins  was  looking  over  the  morning  Pic.,  detecting,  as  young 
reporters  will,  the  gross  blunders  in  the  make-up,  and  the 
envious  blue-pencilling  his  own  stuff  had  received.  This 
item,  in  the  advertising  columns,  caught  his  eye,  and  with  an 
exclamation  of  sudden  interest  he  read  it  aloud  to  his  friend. 

PUBLIC  AUCTION". —  At  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  there  will  be 
told  to  the  highest  bidder  all  the  common  property  of  the  Little  Sis 
ters  of  Samaria,  at  the  home  of  the  Sisterhood,  in  Bonhomme  Street. 
The  sale  will  dispose  of  the  building,  ground,  and  the  complete  fur 
nishings  of  the  house  and  chapel,  without  reserve. 

144 


Cherchez  la  Femme  145 

This  notice  stirred  the  two  friends  to  a  reminiscent  talk 
concerning  an  episode  in  their  journalistic  career  that  had 
occurred  about  two  years  before.  They  recalled  the  incidents, 
went  over  the  old  theories,  and  discussed  it  anew  from  the 
different  perspective  time  had  brought. 

There  were  no  other  customers  in  the  cafe.  Madame's 
fine  ear  had  caught  the  line  of  their  talk,  and  she  came  over 
to  their  table  —  for  had  it  not  been  her  lost  money  —  her 
vanished  twenty  thousand  dollars  —  that  had  set  the  whole 
matter  going? 

The  three  took  up  the  long-abandonded  mystery,  threshing 
over  the  old,  dry  chaff  of  it.  It  was  in  the  chapel  of  this 
house  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  Samaria  that  Robbins  and  Du- 
mars  had  stood  during  that  eager,  fruitless  news  search  of 
theirs,  and  looked  upon  the  gilded  statue  of  the  Virgin. 

"Thass  so,  boys,"  said  madame,  summing  up.  "Thass 
ver'  wicked  man,  M'sieur  Morin.  Everybody  shall  be  cert* 
he  steal  those  money  I  plaze  in  his  hand  for  keep  safe.  Yes. 
He's  boun'  spend  that  money,  somehow."  Madame  turned  a 
broad  and  comprehensive  smile  upon  Dumars.  "I  ond'stand 
you,  M'sieur  Dumars,  those  day  you  come  ask  me  fo'  tell 
ev'y thing  I  know  'bout  M'sieur  Morin.  Ah !  yes,  I  know 
most  time  when  those  men  lose  money  you  say  'Cherchez  la 
femme'  —  there  is  somewhere  the  woman.  But  not  for 
M'sieur  Morin.  No,  boys.  Before  he  shall  die,  he  is  like 
one  saint.  You  might's  well,  M'sieur  Dumars,  go  try  find 
those  money  in  those  statue  of  Virgin  Mary  that  M'sieur 
Morin  present  at  those  p'tite  sceurs,  as  try  find  one  femme." 

At  Madame  Tibault's  last  words,  Robbins  started  slightly 
and  cast  a  keen,  sidelong  glance  at  Dumars.  The  Creole  sat, 
unmoved,  dreamily  watching  the  spirals  of  his  cigarette 
smoke. 

It  was  then  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  and,  a  few  minutes 
later,  the  two  friends  separated,  going  different  ways  to  their 


146  Roads  of  Destiny 

day's  duties.     And  now  follows  the  brief  story  of  Madame 
Tibault's   vanished  thousands: 


New  Orleans  will  readily  recall  to  mind  the  circumstances 
attendant  upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Gaspard  Morin.  in  that 
city.  Mr.  Morin  was  an  artistic  goldsmith  and  jeweller  in 
the  old  French  Quarter,  and  a  man  held  in  the  highest  esteem. 
He  belonged  to  one  of  the  oldest  French  families,  and  was 
of  some  distinction  as  an  antiquary  and  historian.  He  was 
a  bachelor,  about  fifty  years  of  age.  He  lived  in  quiet  com 
fort,  at  one  of  those  rare  old  hostelries  in  Royal  Street.  He 
was  found  in  his  rooms,  one  morning,  dead  from  unknown 
causes. 

When  his  affairs  came  to  be  looked  into,  it  was  found  that 
he  was  practically  insolvent,  his  stock  of  goods  and  personal 
property  barely  —  but  nearly  enough  to  free  him  from  cen 
sure  —  covering  his  liabilities.  Following  came  the  disclo 
sure  that  he  had  been  intrusted  with  the  sum  of  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  by  a  former  upper  servant  in  the  Morin  family, 
one  Madame  Tibault,  which  she  had  received  as  a  legacy  from 
relatives  in  France. 

The  most  searching  scrutiny  by  friends  and  the  legal  au 
thorities  failed  to  reveal  the  disposition  of  the  money.  It 
had  vanished,  and  left  no  trace.  Some  weeks  before  his 
death,  Mr.  Morin  had  drawn  the  entire  amount,  in  gold  coin, 
from  the  bank  where  it  had  been  placed  while  he  looked  about 
(he  told  Madame  Tibault)  for  a  safe  investment.  There 
fore,  Mr.  Morin's  memory  seemed  doomed  to  bear  the  cloud 
of  dishonesty,  while  madame  was,  of  course,  disconsolate. 

Then  it  was  that  Robbins  and  Dumars,  representing  their 
respective  j  ournals.  began  one  of  those  pertinacious  private  in 
vestigations  which,  of  late  years,  the  press  has  adopted  as  a 
means  to  glory  and  the  satisfaction  of  public  curiosity. 

"Cherchez  la  femme,"  said  Dumars. 


Cherchez  la  Femme  147 

"That's  the  ticket!"  agreed  Robbins.  "All  roads  lead 
to  the  eternal  feminine.  We  will  find  the  woman." 

They  exhausted  the  knowledge  of  the  staff  of  Mr.  Morin's 
hotel,  from  the  bell-boy  down  to  the  proprietor.  They  gently, 
but  inflexibly,  pumped  the  family  of  the  deceased  as  far  as 
his  cousins  twice  removed.  They  artfully  sounded  the  em 
ployees  of  the  late  jeweller,  and  dogged  his  customers  for 
information  concerning  his  habits.  Like  bloodhounds  they 
traced  every  step  of  the  supposed  defaulter,  as  nearly  as 
might  be,  for  years  along  the  limited  and  monotonous  paths 
he  had  trodden. 

At  the  end  of  their  labours,  Mr.  Morin  stood,  an  immac 
ulate  man.  Not  one  weakness  that  might  be  served  up  as  a 
criminal  tendency,  not  one  deviation  from  the  path  of  recti 
tude,  not  even  a  hint  of  a  predilection  for  the  opposite  sex, 
was  found  to  be  placed  to  his  debit.  His  life  had  been  as 
regular  and  austere  as  a  monk's ;  his  habits,  simple  and  uncon 
cealed.  Generous,  charitable,  and  a  model  in  propriety,  was 
the  verdict  of  all  who  knew  him. 

"What,  now?"  asked  Robbins,  fingering  his  empty  note 
book. 

"Cherchez  la  femme/'  said  Dumars,  lighting  a  cigarette. 
"Try  Lady  Bellairs." 

This  piece  of  femininity  was  the  race-track  favourite  of 
the  season.  Being  feminine,  she  was  erratic  in  her  gaits,  and 
there  were  a  few  heavy  losers  about  town  who  had  believed 
she  could  be  true.  The  reporters  applied  for  information. 

Mr.  Morin?  Certainly  not.  He  was  never  even  a  specta 
tor  at  the  races.  Not  that  kind  of  a  man.  Surprised  the 
gentlemen  should  ask. 

"Shall  we  throw  it  up?"  suggested  Robbins,  "and  let  the 
puzzle  department  have  a  try?" 

"Cherchez  la  femme/'  hummed  Dumars,  reaching  for  a 
match.  "Try  the  Little  Sisters  of  What-d'-you-call-'em." 


148  Roads  of  Destiny 

It  had  developed,  during  the  investigation,  that  Mr.  Morin 
had  held  this  benevolent  order  in  particular  favour.  He 
had  contributed  liberally  toward  its  support  and  had  chosen 
its  chapel  as  his  favourite  place  of  private  worship.  It  was 
said  that  he  went  there  daily  to  make  his  devotions  at  the  altar. 
Indeed,  toward  the  last  of  his  life  his  whole  mind  seemed  to 
have  fixed  itself  upon  religious  matters,  perhaps  to  the  detri 
ment  of  his  worldly  affairs. 

Thither  went  Robbins  and  Dumars,  and  were  admitted 
through  the  narrow  doorway  in  the  blank  stone  wall  that 
frowned  upon  Bonhomme  Street.  An  old  woman  was  sweep 
ing  the  chapel.  She  told  them  that  Sister  Felicite,  the  head 
of  the  order,  was  then  at  prayer  at  the  altar  in  the  alcove. 
In  a  few  moments  she  would  emerge.  Heavy,  black  curtains 
screened  the  alcove.  They  waited. 

Soon  the  curtains  were  disturbed,  and  Sister  Felicite  came 
forth.  She  was  tall,  tragic,  bony,  and  plain-featured,  dressed 
in  the  black  gown  and  severe  bonnet  of  the  sisterhood. 

Robbins,  a  good  rough-and-tumble  reporter,  but  lacking  the 
delicate  touch,  began  to  speak. 

They  represented  the  press.  The  lady  had,  no  doubt, 
heard  of  the  Morin  affair.  It  was  necessary,  in  justice  to  that 
gentleman's  memory,  to  probe  the  mystery  of  the  lost  money. 
It  was  known  that  he  had  come  often  to  this  chapel.  Any  in 
formation,  now,  concerning  Mr.  Morin's  habits,  tastes,  the 
friends  he  had,  and  so  on,  would  be  of  value  in  doing  him 
posthumous  justice. 

Sister  Felicite  had  heard.  Whatever  she  knew  would  be 
willingly  told,  but  it  was  very  little.  Monsieur  Morin  had 
been  a  good  friend  to  the  order,  sometimes  contributing  as 
much  as  a  hundred  dollars.  The  sisterhood  was  an  independ 
ent  one,  depending  entirely  upon  private  contributions  for  the 
means  to  carry  on  its  charitable  work.  Mr.  Morin  had  pre 
sented  the  chapel  with  silver  candlesticks  and  an  altar  cloth. 


Cherchez  la  Femme  149 

He  came  every  day  to  worship  in  the  chapel,  sometimes  re 
maining  for  an  hour.  He  was  a  devout  Catholic,  consecrated 
to  holiness.  Yes,  and  also  in  the  alcove  was  a  statue  of  the 
Virgin  that  he  had  himself  modeled,  cast,  and  presented  to 
the  order.  Oh,  it  was  cruel  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  so  good 
a  man! 

Robbins  was  also  profoundly  grieved  at  the  imputation. 
But,  until  it  was  found  what  Mr.  Morin  had  done  with  Ma 
dame  Tibault's  money,  he  feared  the  tongue  of  slander  would 
not  be  stilled.  Sometimes  —  in  fact,  very  often  —  in  affairs 
of  the  kind  there  was  —  er  —  as  the  saying  goes  —  er  —  a 
lady  in  the  case.  In  absolute  confidence,  now  —  if  —  per 
haps  — 

Sister  Felicite's  large  eyes  regarded  him  solemnly. 

"There  was  one  woman,"  she  said,  slowly,  "to  whom  he 
bowed  —  to  whom  he  gave  his  heart." 

Robbins  fumbled  rapturously  for  his  pencil. 

"Behold  the  woman!"  said  Sister  Felicite,  suddenly,  in 
deep  tones. 

She  reached  a  long  arm  and  swept  aside  the  curtain  of  the 
alcove.  In  there  was  a  shrine,  lit  to  a  glow  of  soft  colour  by 
the  light  pouring  through  a  stained-glass  window.  Within  a 
deep  niche  in  the  bare  stone  wall  stood  an  image  of  the  Vir 
gin  Mary,  the  colour  of  pure  gold. 

Dumars,  a  conventional  Catholic,  succumbed  to  the  dra 
matic  in  the  act.  He  bowed  his  head  for  an  instant  and  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross.  The  somewhat  abashed  Robbins, 
murmuring  an  indistinct  apology,  backed  awkwardly  away. 
Sister  Felicite  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  the  reporters  de 
parted. 

On  the  narrow  stone  sidewalk  of  Bonhomme  Street,  Rob- 
bins  turned  to  Dumars,  with  unworthy  sarcasm. 

"Well,  what  next?      Churchy  law  fern?" 

"Absinthe,"  said  Dumars. 


150  Roads  of  Destiny 

With  the  history  of  the  missing  money  thus  partially  re 
lated,  some  conjecture  may  be  formed  of  the  sudden  idea 
that  Madame  Tibault's  words  seemed  to  have  suggested  to 
Robbins's  brain. 

Was  it  so  wild  a  surmise  —  that  the  religious  fanatic  had 
offered  up  his  wealth  —  or,  rather,  Madame  Tibault's  —  in 
the  shape  of  a  material  symbol  of  his  consuming  devotion? 
Stranger  things  have  been  done  in  the  name  of  worship.  Was 
it  not  possible  that  the  lost  thousands  were  molded  into  that 
lustrous  image?  That  the  goldsmith  had  formed  it  of  the 
pure  and  precious  metal,  and  set  it  there,  through  some  hope 
of  a  perhaps  disordered  brain  to  propitiate  the  saints  and 
pave  the  way  to  his  own  selfish  glory? 

That  afternoon,  at  five  minutes  to  three,  Robbins  entered 
the  chapel  door  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  Samaria.  He  saw, 
in  the  dim  light,  a  crowd  of  perhaps  a  hundred  people  gath 
ered  to  attend  the  sale.  Most  of  them  were  members  of  vari 
ous  religious  orders,  priests  and  churchmen,  come  '.  •  pur 
chase  the  paraphernalia  of  the  chapel,  lest  they  fall  into  dese 
crating  hands.  Others  were  business  men  and  agents  come 
to  bid  upon  the  realty.  A  clerical-looking  brother  had  vol 
unteered  to  wield  the  hammer,  bringing  to  the  office  of  auc 
tioneer  the  anomaly  of  choice  diction  and  dignity  of  manner. 

A  few  of  the  minor  articles  were  sold,  and  then  two  assist 
ants  brought  forward  the  image  of  the  Virgin. 

Robbins  started  the  bidding  at  ten  dollars.  A  stout  man, 
in  an  ecclesiastical  garb,  went  to  fifteen.  A  voice  from  an 
other  part  of  the  crowd  raised  to  twenty.  The  three  bid 
alternately,  raising  by  bids  of  five,  until  the  offer  was  fifty 
dollars.  Then  the  stout  man  dropped  out,  and  Robbins,  as  a 
sort  of  coup  de  main,  went  to  a  hundred. 

"One  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  the  other  voice. 

"Two  hundred,"  bid  Robbins,  boldly. 

"Two-fifty,"  called  his  competitor. 


Cherchez  la  Femme  151 

The  reporter  hesitated  for  the  space  of  a  lightning  flash, 
estimating  how  much  he  could  borrow  from  the  boys  in  the 
office,  and  screw  from  the  business  manage/  from  his  next 
month's  salary. 

"Three  hundred/'  he  offered. 

"Three-fifty,"  spoke  up  the  other,  in  a  louder  voice  —  a 
voice  that  sent  Robbins  diving  suddenly  through  the  crowd  in 
its  direction,  to  catch  Dumars,  its  owner,  ferociously  by  the 
collar. 

"You  unconverted  idiot!"  hissed  Robbins.,  close  to  his  ear 
— "pool!" 

"Agreed!"  said  Dumars,  coolly.  "I  couldn't  raise  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  with  a  search-warrant,  but  I  can 
stand  half.  What  you  come  bidding  against  me  for  ?" 

"I  thought  I  was  the  only  fool  in  the  crowd,"  explained 
Robbins. 

No  one  else  bidding,  the  statue  was  knocked  down  to  the 
syndicate  at  their  last  offer.  Dumars  remained  with  the 
prize,  while  Robbins  hurried  forth  to  wring  from  the  re 
sources  and  credit  of  both  the  price.  He  soon  returned  with 
the  money,  and  the  two  musketeers  loaded  their  precious 
package  into  a  carriage  and  drove  with  it  to  Dumars's  room, 
in  old  Chartres  Street,  nearby.  They  lugged  it,  covered  with 
a  cloth,  up  the  stairs,  and  deposited  it  on  a  table.  A  hun 
dred  pounds  it  weighed,  if  an  ounce,  and  at  that  estimate,  ac 
cording  to  their  calculation,  if  their  daring  theory  were  cor 
rect,  it  stood  there,  worth  twenty  thousand  golden  dollars. 

Robbins  removed  the  covering,  and  opened  his  pocket- 
knife. 

"Sacre!"  muttered  Dumars,  shuddering.  "It  is  the  Mother 
of  Christ.  What  would  you  do?" 

"Shut  up,  Judas !"  said  Robbins,  coldly.  "It's  too  late 
for  you  to  be  saved  now." 

With  a  firm  hand,  he  clipped  a  slice  from  the  shoulder  of 


152  Roads  of  Destiny 

the  image.  The  cut  showed  a  dull,  grayish  metal,  with  a  thin 
coating  of  gold  leaf. 

"Lead!"  announced  Robbins,  hurling  his  knife  to  the  floor 
—"gilded!" 

"To  the  devil  with  it!"  said  Dumars,  forgetting  his  scru 
ples.  "I  must  have  a  drink." 

Together  they  walked  moodily  to  the  cafe  of  Madame  Ti- 
bault,  two  squares  away. 

It  seemed  that  madame's  mind  had  been  stirred  that  day 
to  fresh  recollections  of  the  past  services  of  the  two  young 
men  in  her  behalf. 

"You  mustn't  sit  by  those  table,"  she  interposed,  as  they 
were  about  to  drop  into  their  accustomed  seats.  "Thass  so, 
boys.  But  no.  I  mek  you  come  at  this  room,  like  my  ires 
bons  amis.  Yes.  I  goin'  mek  for  you  myself  one  anisette 
and  one  cafe  royale  ver'  fine.  Ah!  I  lak  treat  my  fren'  nize. 
Yes.  Plis  come  in  this  way." 

Madame  led  them  into  the  little  back  room,  into  which  she 
sometimes  invited  the  especially  favoured  of  her  customers. 
In  two  comfortable  armchairs,  by  a  big  window  that  opened 
upon  the  courtyard,  she  placed  them,  with  a  low  table  be 
tween.  Bustling  hospitably  about,  she  began  to  prepare  the 
promised  refreshments. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  reporters  had  been  honoured  with 
admission  to  the  sacred  precincts.  The  room  was  in  dusky 
twilight,  flecked  with  gleams  of  the  polished,  fine  woods  and 
burnished  glass  and  metal  that  the  Creoles  love.  From  the 
little  courtyard  a  tiny  fountain  sent  in  an  insinuating  sound 
of  trickling  waters,  to  which  a  banana  plant  by  the  window 
kept  time  with  its  tremulous  leaves. 

Bobbins,  an  investigator  by  nature,  sent  a  curious  glance 
roving  about  the  room.  From  some  barbaric  ancestor,  ma- 
dame  had  inherited  a  penchant  for  the  crude  in  decoration. 


Cherchez  la  Femme  153 

The  walls  were  adorned  with  cheap  lithographs  —  florid 
libels  upon  nature,  addressed  to  the  taste  of  the  bourgeoisie 
—  birthday  cards,  garish  newspaper  supplements,  and  speci 
mens  of  art-advertising  calculated  to  reduce  the  optic  nerve 
to  stunned  submission.  A  patch  of  something  unintelligible 
in  the  midst  of  the  more  candid  display  puzzled  Bobbins, 
and  he  rose  and  took  a  step  nearer,  to  interrogate  it  at  closer 
range.  Then  he  leaned  weakly  against  the  wall,  and  called 
out: 

"Madame  Tibault !  Oh,  madame !  Since  when  —  oh ! 
since  when  have  you  been  in  the  habit  of  papering  your  walls 
with  five  thousand  dollar  United  States  four  per  cent,  gold 
bonds  ?  Tell  me  —  is  this  a  Grimm's  fairy  tale,  or  should  I 
consult  an  oculist?" 

At  his  words,  Madame  Tibault  and  Dumars  approached. 

"H'what  you  say?"  said  madame,  cheerily.  "H'what  you 
Say,  M'sieur  Robbin'?  Bon!  Ah!  those  nize  lil  peezes 
papier!  One  tarn  I  think  those  w'at  you  call  calendair,  wiz 
ze  li'l  day  of  mont'  below.  But,  no.  Those  wall  is  broke 
in  those  plaze,  M'sieur  Robbin',  and  I  plaze  those  li'l  peezes 
papier  to  conceal  ze  crack.  I  did  think  the  couleur  harm'nize 
so  well  with  the  wall  papier.  Where  I  get  them  from?  Ah, 
yes,  I  remem'  ver'  well.  One  day  M'sieur  Morin,  he  come 
at  my  house  —  thass  'bout  one  mont'  before  he  shall  die  — 
thass  'long  'bout  tarn  he  promise  fo*  inves'  those  money  fo' 
me.  M'sieur  Morin,  he  leave  thoze  li'l  peezes  papier  in  those 
table,  and  say  ver'  much  'bout  money  thass  hard  for  me  to 
ond'stan.  Mais  I  never  see  those  money  again.  Thass  ver' 
wicked  man,  M'sieur  Morin.  H'what  you  call  those  peezes 
papier,  M'sieur  Robbin' —  bon!" 

Robbins  explained. 

"There's  your  twenty  thousand  dollars,  with  coupons  at 
tached,"  he  said,  running  his  thumb  around  the  edge  of  the 


154  Roads  of  Destiny 

four  bonds.  "Better  get  an  expert  to  peel  them  off  for  you. 
Mister  Morin  was  all  right.  I'm  going  out  to  get  my  ears 
trimmed." 

He  dragged  Dumars  by  the  arm  into  the  outer  room.  Ma 
dame  was  screaming  for  Nicolette  and  Meme  to  come  and 
observe  the  fortune  returned  to  her  by  M'sieur  Morin,  that 
best  of  men,  that  saint  in  glory. 

"Marsy,"  said  Robbins,  "I'm  going  on  a  jamboree.  For 
three  days  the  esteemed  Pic.  will  have  to  get  along  without 
my  valuable  services.  I  advise  you  to  join  me.  Now,  that 
green  stuff  you  drink  is  no  good.  It  stimulates  thought. 
What  we  want  to  do  is  to  forget  to  remember.  I'll  intro 
duce  you  to  the  only  lady  in  this  case  that  is  guaranteed  to 
produce  the  desired  results.  Her  name  is  Belle  of  Ken 
tucky,  twelve-year-old  Bourbon.  In  quarts.  How  does  the 
idea  strike  you?" 

"Allans!"  said  Dumars.     "Cherchez  la  femme." 


XII 
FRIENDS  IN  SAN  ROSARIO 

IHE  west-bound  stopped  at  San  Rosario  on  time  at  8.20 
A.  M.  A  man  with  a  thick  black-leather  wallet  under  his  arm 
left  the  train  and  walked  rapidly  up  the  main  street  of  the 
town.  There  were  other  passengers  who  also  got  off  at  San 
Rosario,  but  they  either  slouched  limberly  over  to  the  rail 
road  eating-house  or  the  Silver  Dollar  saloon,  or  joined  the 
groups  of  idlers  about  the  station. 

Indecision  had  no  part  in  the  movements  of  the  man  with 
the  wallet.  He  was  short  in  stature,  but  strongly  built,  with 
very  light,  closely-trimmed  hair,  smooth,  determined  face,  and 
aggressive,  gold-rimmed  nose  glasses.  He  was  well  dressed 
in  the  prevailing  Eastern  style.  His  air  denoted  a  quiet  but 
conscious  reserve  force,  if  not  actual  authority. 

After  walking  a  distance  of  three  squares  he  came  to  the 
centre  of  the  town's  business  area.  Here  another  street  of 
importance  crossed  the  main  one,  forming  the  hub  of  San 
Rosario's  life  and  commerce.  Upon  one  corner  stood  the 
post-office.  Upon  another  Rubensky's  Clothing  Emporium. 
The  other  two  diagonally  opposing  corners  were  occupied  by 
the  town's  two  banks,  the  First  National  and  the  Stockmen's 
National.  Into  the  First  National  Bank  of  San  Rosario  the 
newcomer  walked,  never  slowing  his  brisk  step  until  he  stood 
at  the  cashier's  window.  The  bank  opened  for  business  at 
nine,  and  the  working  force  was  already  assembled,  each 
member  preparing  his  department  for  the  day's  business. 
The  cashier  was  examining  the  mail  when  he  noticed  the 
stranger  standing  at  his  window. 

155 


156  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Bank  doesn't  open  'til  nine/'  he  remarked,  curtly,  but  with 
out  feeling.  He  had  had  to  make  that  statement  so  often  to 
early  birds  since  San  Rosario  adopted  city  banking  hours. 

"I  am  well  aware  of  that,"  said  the  other  man,  in  cool,  brit 
tle  tones.  "Will  you  kindly  receive  my  card?" 

The  cashier  drew  the  small,  spotless  parallelogram  inside 
the  bars  of  his  wicket,  and  read: 


J.  F.  C.  NETTLE  WICK 

National  Bask  Examiner 


"Oh  —  er  —  will  you  walk  around  inside,  Mr. —  er  Net- 
tlewick.  Your  first  visit  —  didn't  know  your  business,  of 
course.  Walk  right  around,  please." 

The  examiner  was  quickly  inside  the  sacred  precincts  of 
the  bank,  where  he  was  ponderously  introduced  to  each  em 
ployee  in  turn  by  Mr.  Edlinger,  the  cashier  —  a  middle-aged 
gentleman  of  deliberation,  discretion,  and  method. 

"I  was  kind  of  expecting  Sam  Turner  round  again,  pretty 
soon,"  said  Mr.  Edlinger.  "Sam's  been  examining  us  now,  for 
about  four  years.  I  guens  you'll  find  us  all  right,  though, 
considering  the  lightness  in  business.  Not  overly  much 
money  on  hand,  but  able  to  stand  the  storms,  sir,  stand  the 
storms." 

"Mr.  Turner  and  I  have  been  ordered  by  the  Comptroller 
to  exchange  districts,"  said  the  examiner,  in  his  decisive,  for 
mal  tones.  "He  is  covering  my  old  territory  in  Southern 
Illinois  and  Indiana.  I  will  take  the  cash  first,  please." 

Perry  Dorsey,  the  teller,  was  already  arranging  his  cash  on 
the  counter  for  the  examiner's  inspection.  He  knew  it  was 
right  to  a  cent,  and  he  had  nothing  to  fear,  but  he  was  nerv 
ous  and  flustered.  So  was  every  man  in  the  bank.  There 


Friends  in  San  Rosario  157i 

was  something  so  icy  and  swift,  so  impersonal  and  uncom 
promising  about  this  man  that  his  very  presence  seemed  an 
accusation.  He  looked  to  be  a  man  who  would  never  make 
nor  overlook  an  error. 

Mr.  Nettlewick  first  seized  the  currency,  and  with  a  rapid, 
almost  juggling  motion,  counted  it  by  packages.  Then  he 
spun  the  sponge  cup  toward  him  and  verified  the  count  by 
bills.  His  thin,  white  fingers  flew  like  some  expert  musi 
cian's  upon  the  keys  of  a  piano.  He  dumped  the  gold  upon 
the  counter  with  a  crash,  and  the  coins  whined  and  sang  as 
they  skimmed  across  the  marble  slab  from  the  tips  of  his 
nimble  digits.  The  air  was  full  of  fractional  currency  when 
he  came  to  the  halves  and  quarters.  He  counted  the  last 
nickel  and  dime.  He  had  the  scales  brought,  and  he 
weighed  every  sack  of  silver  in  the  vault.  He  questioned 
Dorsey  concerning  each  of  the  cash  memoranda  —  certain 
checks,  charge  slips,  etc.,  carried  over  from  the  previous  day's 
work  —  with  unimpeachable  courtesy,  yet  with  something  so 
mysteriously  momentous  in  his  frigid  manner,  that  the  teller 
was  reduced  to  pink  cheeks  and  a  stammering  tongue. 

This  newly-imported  examiner  was  so  different  from  Sam 
Turner.  It  had  been  Sam's  way  to  enter  the  bank  with  a 
shout,  pass  the  cigars,  and  tell  the  latest  stories  he  had  picked 
up  on  his  rounds.  His  customary  greeting  to  Dorsey  had 
been,  "Hello,  Perry!  Haven't  skipped  out  with  the  boodle 
yet,  I  see."  Turner's  way  of  counting  the  cash  had  been 
different,  too.  He  would  finger  the  packages  of  bills  in  a 
tired  kind  of  way,  and  then  go  into  the  vault  and  kick  over 
a  few  sacks  of  silver,  and  the  thing  was  done.  Halves  and 
quarters  and  dimes?  Not  for  Sam  Turner.  "No  chicken 
feed  for  me,"  he  would  say  when  they  were  set  before  him. 
"I'm  not  in  the  agricultural  department."  But,  then,  Turner 
was  a  Texan,  an  old  friend  of  the  bank's  president,  and  had 
known  Dorsey  since  he  was  a  baby. 


158  Roads  of  Destiny 

While  the  examiner  was  counting  the  cash,  Major  Thomas 
B.  Kingman —  known  to  every  one  as  "Major  Tom" — the 
president  of  the  First  National,  drove  up  to  the  side  door 
with  his  old  dun  horse  and  buggy,  and  came  inside.  He  saw 
the  examiner  busy  with  the  money,  and,  going  into  the  little 
"pony  corral,"  as  he  called  it,  in  which  his  desk  was  railed  off, 
lie  began  to  look  over  his  letters. 

Earlier,  a  little  incident  had  occurred  that  even  the  sharp 
eyes  of  the  examiner  had  failed  to  notice.  When  he  had 
begun  his  work  at  the  cash  counter,  Mr.  Edlinger  had  winked 
significantly  at  Roy  Wilson,  the  youthful  bank  messenger, 
and  nodded  his  head  slightly  toward  the  front  door.  Roy 
understood,  got  his  hat  and  walked  leisurely  out,  with  his 
collector's  book  under  his  arm.  Once  outside,  he  made  a  bee- 
line  for  the  Stockmen's  National.  That  bank  was  also  get 
ting  ready  to  open.  No  customers  had,  as  yet,  presented 
themselves. 

"Say,  you  people!"  cried  Roy,  with  the  familiarity  of 
youth  and  long  acquaintance,  "you  want  to  get  a  move  on 
you.  There's  a  new  bank  examiner  over  at  the  First,  and 
he's  a  stem-winder.  He's  counting  nickels  on  Perry,  and 
he's  got  the  whole  outfit  bluffed.  Mr.  Edlinger  gave  me  the 
tip  to  let  you  know." 

Mr.  Buckley,  president  of  the  Stockmen's  National  —  a 
stout,  elderly  man,  looking  like  a  farmer  dressed  for  Sun 
day  —  heard  Roy  from  his  private  office  at  the  rear  and  called 
hun. 

"Has  Major  Kingman  come  down  to  the  bank  yet?"  he 
asked  of  the  boy. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  was  just  driving  up  as  I  left,"  said  Roy. 

"I  want  you  to  take  him  a  note.  Put  it  into  his  own  hands 
as  soon  as  you  get  back." 

Mr.  Buckley  sat  down  and  began  to  write. 

Roy  returned  and  handed  to  Major  Kingman  the  envelope 


Friends  in  San  Eosario 

containing  the  note.  The  major  read  it,  folded  it,  and  slipped 
it  into  his  vest  pocket.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair"  for  a 
few  moments  as  if  he  were  meditating  deeply,  and  then  rose 
and  went  into  the  vault.  He  came  out  with  the  bulky,  old- 
fashioned  leather  note  case  stamped  on  the  back  in  gilt  letters, 
"Bills  Discounted."  In  this  were  the  notes  due  the  bank  with 
their  attached  securities,  and  the  major,  in  his  rough  way, 
dumped  the  lot  upon  his  desk  and  began  to  sort  them  over. 

By  this  time  Nettlewick  had  finished  his  count  of  the  cash. 
His  pencil  fluttered  like  a  swallow  over  the  sheet  of  paper 
on  which  he  had  set  his  figures.  He  opened  his  black  wal 
let,  which  seemed  to  be  also  a  kind  of  secret  memorandum 
book,  made  a  few  rapid  figures  in  it,  wheeled  and  transfixed 
Dorsey  with  the  glare  of  his  spectacles.  That  look  seemed 
to  say:  "You're  safe  this  time,  but — " 

"Cash  all  correct,"  snapped  the  examiner.  He  made  a 
dash  for  the  individual  bookkeeper,  and,  for  a  few  minutes 
there  was  a  fluttering  of  ledger  leaves  and  a  sailing  of  bal 
ance  sheets  through  the  air. 

"How  often  do  you  balance  your  pass-books?"  he  de 
manded,  suddenly. 

"Er  —  once  a  month,"  faltered  the  individual  book 
keeper,  wondering  how  many  years  they  would  give  him. 

"All  right,"  said  the  examiner,  turning  and  charging  upon 
the  general  bookkeeper,  who  had  the  statements  of  his  for 
eign  banks  and  their  reconcilement  memoranda  ready.  Every 
thing  there  was  found  to  be  all  right.  Then  the  stub  book 
of  the  certificates  of  deposit.  Flutter  —  flutter  —  zip  —  zip 
—  check!  All  right.  List  of  over-drafts,  please.  Thanks. 
H'm-m.  Unsigned  bills  of  the  bank,  next.  All  right. 

Then  came  the  cashier's  turn,  and  easy-going  Mr.  Edlinger 
rubbed  his  nose  and  polished  his  glasses  nervously  under  the 
quick  fire  of  questions  concerning  the  circulation,  undivided 
profits,  bank  real  estate,  and  stock  ownership. 


160  Roads  of  Destiny 

,  Presently  Nettlewick  was  aware  of  a  big  man  towering 
above  him  at  his  elbow  —  a  man  sixty  years  of  age,  rugged 
and  hale,  with  a  rough,  grizzled  beard,  a  mass  of  gray  hair, 
and  a  pair  of  penetrating  blue  eyes  that  confronted  the  for 
midable  glasses  of  the  examiner  without  a  flicker. 

"Er  —  Major  Kingman,  our  president  —  er  —  Mr.  Nettle- 
wick,"  said  the  cashier. 

Two  men  cf  very  different  types  shook  hands.  One  was  a 
finished  product  of  the  world  of  straight  lines,  conventional 
methods,  and  formal  affairs.  The  other  was  something  freer, 
wider  and  nearer  to  nature.  Tom  Kingman  had  not  been  cut 
to  any  pattern.  He  had  been  mule-driver,  cowboy,  ranger, 
soldier,  sheriff,  prospector,  and  cattleman.  Now,  when  he 
was  bank  president,  his  old  comrades  from  the  prairies,  of  the 
saddle,  tent,  and  trail  found  no  change  in  him.  He  had  made 
his  fortune  when  Texas  cattle  were  at  the  high  tide  of  value, 
and  had  organized  the  First  National  Bank  of  San  Rosario. 
In  spite  of  his  largeness  of  heart  and  sometime:  unwise  gen 
erosity  toward  his  old  friends,  the  bank  had  prospered,  for 
Major  Tom  Kingman  knew  men  as  well  as  he  knew  cattle. 
Of  late  years  the  cattle  business  had  known  a  depression,  and 
the  major's  bank  was  one  of  the  few  whose  losses  had  not 
been  great. 

"And  now,"  said  the  examiner,  briskly,  pulling  out  his 
watch,  "the  last  thing  is  the  loans.  We  will  take  them  up 
now,  if  you  please." 

He  had  gone  through  the  First  National  at  almost  record- 
breaking  speed  —  but  thoroughly,  as  he  did  everything.  The 
running  order  of  the  bank  was  smooth  and  clean,  and  that 
had  facilitated  his  work.  There  was  but  one  other  bank  in 
Cie  town.  He  received  from  the  Government  a  fee  *,-  twenty- 
five  dollars  for  each  bank  that  he  examined.  He  should  be 
able  to  go  over  those  loans  and  discounts  in  half  an  hour. 
If  so,  he  could  examine  the  other  bank  immediately  after- 


Friends  in  San  Rosario  161 

ward,  and  catch  the  11.45,  the  only  other  train  that  day  in 
the  direction  he  was  working.  Otherwise,  he  would  have  to 
spend  the  night  and  Sunday  in  this  uninteresting  Western 
town.  That  was  \7hy  Mr.  Nettlewick  was  rushing  matters. 

"Come  with  me,  sir,"  said  Major  Kingman,  in  his  deep 
voice,  that  united  the  Southern  drawl  with  the  rhythmic 
twang  of  the  West;  "We  will  go  over  them  together.  No 
body  in  the  bank  knows  those  notes  as  I  do.  Some  of  'em 
are  a  little  wobbly  on  their  legs,  and  some  are  mavericks 
without  extra  many  brands  on  their  backs,  but  they'll  most  all 
pay  out  at  the  round-up." 

The  two  sat  down  at  the  president's  desk.  First,  the  ex 
aminer  went  through  the  notes  at  lightning  speed,  and  added 
up  their  total,  finding  it  to  agree  with  the  amount  of  loans 
carried  on  the  book  of  daily  balances.  Next,  he  took  up 
the  larger  loans,  inquiring  scrupulously  into  the  condition 
of  their  endorsers  or  securities.  The  new  examiner's  mind 
seemed  to  course  and  turn  and  make  unexpected  dashes  hither 
and  thither  like  a  bloodhound  seeking  a  trail.  Finally  he 
pushed  aside  all  the  notes  except  a  few,  which  he  arranged 
in  a  neat  pile  before  him,  and  began  a  dry,  formal  little 
speech. 

"I  find,  sir,  the  condition  of  your  bank  to  be  very  good, 
considering  the  poor  crops  and  the  depression  in  the  cattle 
interests  of  your  state.  The  clerical  work  seems  to  be  done 
accurately  and  punctually.  Your  past-due  paper  is  moderate 
in  amount,  and  promises  only  a  small  loss.  I  would  recom 
mend  the  calling  in  of  your  large  loans,  and  the  making  of 
only  sixty  and  ninety  day  or  call  loans  until  general  business 
revives.  And  now,  there  is  one  thing  more,  and  I  will  have 
finished  with  the  bank.  Here  are  six  notes  aggregating  some 
thing  like  $40,000.  They  are  secured,  according  to  their 
faces,  by  various  stocks,  bonds,  shares,  etc.,  to  the  value  of 
$70,000.  Those  securities  are  missing  from  the  notes  to 


162  Roads  of  Destiny 

which  they  should  be  attached.  I  suppose  you  have  them  in 
the  safe  or  vault.  You  will  permit  me  to  examine  them." 

Major  Tom's  light-blue  eyes  turned  unflinchingly  toward 
the  examiner. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  but  steady  tone;  "those  se 
curities  are  neither  in  the  safe  nor  the  vault.  I  have  taken 
them.  You  may  hold  me  personally  responsible  for  their 
absence." 

Nettlewick  felt  a  slight  thrill.  He  had  not  expected  this. 
He  had  struck  a  momentous  trail  when  the  hunt  was  drawing 
to  a  close. 

"Ah!"  said  the  examiner.  He  waited  a  moment,  and  then 
continued:  "May  I  ask  you  to  explain  more  definitely?" 

"The  securities  were  taken  by  me,"  repeated  the  major. 
"It  was  not  for  my  own  use,  but  to  save  an  old  friend  in 
trouble.  Come  in  here,  sir,  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

He  led  the  examiner  into  the  bank's  private  office  at  the 
rear,  and  closed  the  door.  There  was  a  desk,  and  a  table, 
and  half-a-dozen  leather-covered  chairs.  On  the  wall  was  the 
mounted  head  of  a  Texas  steer  with  horns  five  feet  from  tip 
to  tip.  Opposite  hung  the  major's  old  cavalry  saber  that  he 
had  carried  at  Shiloh  and  Fort  Pillow. 

Placing  a  chair  for  Nettlewick,  the  major  seated  himself 
by  the  window,  from  which  he  could  see  the  post-office  and 
the  carved  limestone  front  of  the  Stockman's  National.  He 
did  not  speak  at  once,  and  Nettlewick  felt,  perhaps,  that  the 
ice  should  be  broken  by  something  so  near  its  own  tempera 
ture  as  the  voice  of  official  warning. 

"Your  statement,"  he  began,  "since  you  have  failed  to 
modify  it,  amounts,  as  you  must  know,  to  a  very  serious  thing. 
You  are  aware,  also,  of  what  my  duty  must  compel  me  to 
do.  I  shall  have  to  go  before  the  United  States  Commissioner 
and  make  — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Major  Tom,  with  a  wave  of  his 


Friends  in  San  Rosario  163 

hand.  "You  don't  suppose  I'd  run  a  bank  without  being 
posted  on  national  banking  laws  and  the  revised  statutes !  Do 
your  duty,  I'm  not  asking  any  favours.  But,  I  spoke  of  my 
friend.  I  did  want  you  to  hear  me  tell  you  about  Bob." 

Nettlewick  settled  himself  in  his  chair.  There  would  be 
no  leaving  San  Rosario  for  him  that  day.  He  would  have 
to  telegraph  to  the  Comptroller  of  the  Currency;  he  would 
have  to  swear  out  a  warrant  before  the  United  States  Com 
missioner  for  the  arrest  of  Major  Kingman;  perhaps  he  would 
be  ordered  to  close  the  bank  on  account  of  the  loss  of  the 
securities.  It  was  not  the  first  crime  the  examiner  had  un 
earthed.  Once  or  twice  the  terrible  upheaval  of  human 
emotions  that  his  investigations  had  loosed  had  almost  caused 
a  ripple  in  his  official  calm.  He  had  seen  bank  men  kneel 
and  plead  arid  cry  like  women  for  a  chance  —  an  hour's  time 
—  the  overlooking  of  a  single  error.  One  cashier  had  shot 
himself  at  his  desk  before  him.  None  of  them  had  taken 
it  with  the  dignity  and  coolness  of  this  stern  old  Westerner. 
Nettlewick  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  him  at  least  to  listen  if  he 
wished  to  talk.  With  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,,  and 
his  square  chin  resting  upon  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand, 
the  bank  examiner  waited  to  hear  the  confession  of  the  presi 
dent  of  the  First  National  Bank  of  San  Rosario. 

"When  a  man's  your  friend,"  began  Major  Tom,  some 
what  didactically,  "for  forty  years,  and  tried  by  water,  fire, 
earth,  and  cyclones,  when  you  can  do  him  a  little  favour 
you  feel  like  doing  it." 

("Embezzle  for  him  $70,000  worth  of  securities,"  thought 
the  examiner.) 

"We  were  cowboys  together,  Bob  and  I,"  continued  the 
major,  speaking  slowly,  and  deliberately,  and  musingly,  as 
if  his  thoughts  were  rather  with  the  past  than  the  critical 
present,  "and  we  prospected  together  for  gold  and  silver 
over  Arizona,  New  Mexico,  and  a  good  part  of  California. 


164  Roads  of  Destiny 

We  were  both  in  the  war  of  'sixty-one,  but  in  different  com 
mands.  We've  fought  Indians  and  horse  thieves  side  by  side; 
we've  starved  for  weeks  in  a  cabin  in  the  Arizona  mountains, 
buried  twenty  feet  deep  in  snow;  we've  ridden  herd  together 
when  the  wind  blew  so  hard  the  lightning  couldn't  strike  — 
well,  Bob  and  I  have  been  through  some  rough  spells  since 
the  first  time  we  met  in  the  branding  camp  of  the  old  Anchor- 
Bar  ranch.  And  during  that  time  we've  found  it  necessary 
more  than  once  to  help  each  other  out  of  tight  places.  In 
those  days  it  was  expected  of  a  man  to  stick  to  his  friend, 
and  he  didn't  ask  any  credit  for  it.  Probably  next  day  you'd 
need  him  to  get  at  your  back  and  help  stand  off  a  band  of 
Apaches,  or  put  a  tourniquet  on  your  leg  above  a  rattlesnake 
bite  and  ride  for  whisky.  So,  after  all,  it  was  give  and  take, 
and  if  you  didn't  stand  square  with  your  pardner,  why,  you 
might  be  shy  one  when  you  needed  him.  But  Bob  was  a  man  who 
was  willing  to  go  further  than  that.  He  never  played  a  limit. 
"Twenty  years  ago  I  was  sheriff  of  this  county,  and  I 
made  Bob  my  chief  deputy.  That  was  before  the  boom  in 
cattle  when  we  both  made  our  stake.  I  was  sheriff  and  col 
lector,  and  it  was  a  big  thing  for  me  then.  I  was  married, 
and  we  had  a  boy  and  a  girl  —  a  four  and  a  six  year  old. 
There  was  a  comfortable  house  next  to  the  courthouse, 
furnished  by  the  county,  rent  free,  and  I  was  saving  some 
money.  Bob  did  most  of  the  office  work.  Both  of  us  had  seen 
rough  times  and  plenty  of  rustling  and  danger,  and  I  tell  you 
it  was  great  to  hear  the  rain  and  the  sleet  dashing  against 
the  windows  of  nights,  and  be  warm  and  safe  and  comfort 
able,  and  know  you  could  get  up  in  the  morning  and  be 
shaved  and  have  folks  call  you  'mister/  And  then,  I  had 
the  finest  wife  and  kids  that  ever  struck  the  range,  and  my 
old  friend  with  me  enjoying  the  first  fruits  of  prosperity  and 
white  shirts,  and  I  guess  I  was  happy.  Yes,  I  was  happy 
about  that  time." 


Friends  in  San  Eosario  165 

The  major  sighed  and  glanced  casually  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  bank  examiner  changed  his  position,  and  leaned  his 
chin  upon  his  other  hand. 

"One  winter,"  continued  the  major,  "the  money  for  the 
county  taxes  came  pouring  in  so  fast  that  I  didn't  have  time 
to  take  the  stuff  to  the  bank  for  a  week.  I  just  shoved  the 
checks  into  a  cigar  box  and  the  money  into  a  sack,  and  locked 
them  in  the  big  safe  that  belonged  in  the  sheriff's  office. 

"I  had  been  overworked  that  week,  and  was  about  sick, 
anyway.  My  nerves  were  out  of  order,  and  my  sleep  at 
night  didn't  seem  to  rest  me.  The  doctor  had  some  scientific 
name  for  it,  and  I  was  taking  medicine.  And  so,  added  to 
the  rest,  I  went  to  bed  at  night  with  that  money  on  my  mind. 
Not  that  there  was  much  need  of  being  worried,  for  the  safe 
was  a  good  one,  and  nobody  but  Bob  and  I  knew  the  combi 
nation.  On  Friday  night  there  was  about  $6,500  in  cash  in 
the  bag.  On  Saturday  morning  I  went  to  the  office  as  usual. 
The  safe  was  locked,  and  Bob  was  writing  at  his  desk.  I 
opened  the  safe,  and  the  money  was  gone.  I  called  Bob,  and 
roused  everybody  in  the  court-house  to  announce  the  robbery. 
It  struck  me  that  Bob  took  it  pretty  quiet,  considering  how 
much  it  reflected  upon  both  him  and  me. 

"Two  days  went  by  and  we  never  got  a  clew.  It  couldn't 
have  been  burglars,  for  the  safe  had  been  opened  by  the  com 
bination  in  the  proper  way.  People  must  have  begun  to  talk, 
for  one  afternoon  in  comes  Alice  —  that's  my  wife  —  and 
the  boy  and  girl,  and  Alice  stamps  her  foot,  and  her  eyes 
flash,  and  she  cries  out,  'The  lying  wretches  —  Tom,  Tom !' 
and  I  catch  her  in  a  faint,  and  bring  her  'round  little  by  little, 
and  she  lays  her  head  down  and  cries  and  cries  for  the  first 
time  since  she  look  Tom  Kingman's  name  and  fortunes.  And 
Jack  and  Zilla  —  the  youngsters  —  they  were  always  wild  as 
tiger  cubs  to  rush  at  Bob  and  climb  all  over  him  whenever 
they  were  allowed  to  come  to  the  court-house  —  they  stood 


166  Roads  of  Destiny 

and  kicked  their  little  shoes,  and  herded  together  like  scared 
partridges.  They  were  having  their  first  trip  down  into  the 
shadows  of  life.  Bob  was  working  at  his  desk,  and  he  got 
up  and  went  out  without  a  word.  The  grand  jury  was  in 
session  then,  and  the  next  morning  Bob  went  before  them 
and  confessed  that  he  stole  the  money.  He  said  he  lost  it 
in  a  poker  game.  In  fifteen  minutes  they  had  found  a  true 
bill  and  sent  me  the  warrant  to  arrest  the  man  with  whom  I'd 
been  closer  than  a  thousand  brothers  for  many  a  year. 

"I  did  it,  and  then  I  said  to  Bob,  pointing:  'There's  my 
house,  and  here's  my  office,  and  up  there's  Maine,  and  out 
that  way  is  California,  and  over  there  is  Florida  —  and  that's 
your  range  'til  court  meets.  You're  in  my  charge,  and  I  take 
the  responsibility.  You  be  here  when  you're  wanted.' 

"'Thanks,  Tom/  he  said,  kind  of  carelessly;  'I  was  sort 
of  hoping  you  wouldn't  lock  me  up.  Court  meets  next  Mon 
day,  so,  if  you  don't  object,  I'll  just  loaf  around  the  office 
until  then.  I've  got  one  favour  to  ask,  if  it  isn't  too  much. 
If  you'd  let  the  kids  come  out  in  the  yard  once  in  a  while 
and  have  a  romp  I'd  like  it/ 

''Why  not?'  I  answered  him.  'They're  welcome,  and  so 
are  you.  And  come  to  my  house,  the  same  as  ever.'  You 
see,  Mr.  Nettlewick,  you  can't  make  a  friend  of  a  thief,  but 
neither  can  you  make  a  thief  of  a  friend,  all  at  once." 

The  examiner  made  no  answer.  At  that  moment  was  heard 
the  shrill  whistle  of  a  locomotive  pulling  into  the  depot. 
That  was  the  train  on  the  little,  narrow-gauge  road  that  struck 
into  San  Rosario  from  the  south.  The  major  cocked  his  ear 
and  listened  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
narrow-gauge  was  in  on  time  —  10.35.  The  major  continued: 

"So  Bob  hung  around  the  office,  reading  the  papers  and 
smoking.  I  put  another  deputy  to  work  in  his  place,  and, 
after  a  while,  the  first  excitement  of  the  case  wore  off. 

"One  day  when  we  were  alone  in  the  office  Bob  came  ovet 


Friends  in  San  Bosario 

to  where  I  was  sitting.  He  was  looking  sort  of  grim  and 
blue  —  the  same  look  he  used  to  get  when  he'd  been  up  watch 
ing  for  Indians  all  night  or  herd-riding. 

"  'Tom,'  says  he,  '  it's  harder  than  standing  off  redskins ; 
it's  harder  than  lying  in  the  lava  desert  forty  miles  from 
water;  but  I'm  going  to  stick  it  out  to  the  end.  You  know 
that's  been  my  style.  But  if  you'd  tip  me  the  smallest  kind 
of  a  sign  —  if  you'd  just  say,  "Bob  I  understand,"  why,  it 
would  make  it  lots  easier/ 

"I  was  surprised.  'I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Bob/  I 
said.  'Of  course,  you  know  that  I'd  do  anything  under 
the  sun  to  help  you  that  I  could.  But  you've  got  me  guess 
ing.' 

"  'All  right,  Tom/  was  all  he  said,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
newspaper  and  lit  another  cigar. 

"It  was  the  night  before  court  met  when  I  found  out  what 
he  meant.  I  went  to  bed  that  night  with  the  same  old,  light 
headed,  nervous  feeling  come  back  upon  me.  I  dropped  off  to 
sleep  about  midnight.  When  I  awoke  I  was  standing  half 
dressed  in  one  of  the  court-house  corridors.  Bob  was  holding 
one  of  my  arms,  our  family  doctor  the  other,  and  Alice  was 
shaking  me  and  half  crying.  She  had  sent  for  the  doctor 
without  my  knowing  it,  and  when  he  came  they  had  found  me 
out  of  bed  and  missing,  and  had  begun  a  search. 

"  'Sleep-walking,'  said  the  doctor. 

"All  of  us  went  back  to  the  house,  and  the  doctor  told  us 
some  remarkable  stories  about  the  strange  things  people  had 
done  while  in  that  condition.  I  was  feeling  rather  chilly 
after  my  trip  out,  and,  as  my  wife  was  out  of  the  room  at  the 
time,  I  pulled  open  the  door  of  an  old  wardrobe  that  stood  in 
the  room  and  dragged  out  a  big  quilt  I  had  seen  in  there. 
With  it  tumbled  out  the  bag  of  money  for  stealing  which  Bob 
Was  to  be  tried  —  and  convicted  —  in  the  morning. 

"'How  the  jumping  rattlesnakes  did  that  get  there?'   I 


168  Roads  of  Destiny 

yelled,  and  all  hands  must  have  seen  how  surprised  I  was. 
Bob  knew  in  a  flash. 

1  'You  darned  old  snoozer,'  he  said,  with  the  old-time  look 
on  his  face,  'I  saw  you  put  it  there.  I  watched  you  open  the 
safe  and  take  it  out,  and  I  followed  you.  I  looked  through 
the  window  and  saw  you  hide  it  in  that  wardrobe.' 

'  'Then,  you  blankety-blank,  flop-eared,  sheep-headed  coy 
ote,  what  did  you  say  you  took  it,  for  ?' 

"  'Because,'  said  Bob,  simply,  'I  didn't  know  you  were 
asleep/ 

"I  saw  him  glance  toward  the  door  of  the  room  where  Jack 
and  Zilla  were,  and  I  knew  then  what  it  meant  to  be  a  man's 
friend  from  Bob's  point  of  view." 

Major  Tom  paused,  and  again  directed  his  glance  out  of 
the  window.  He  saw  some  one  in  the  Stockmen's  National 
Bank  reach  and  draw  a  yellow  shade  down  the  whole  length 
of  its  plate-glass,  big  front  window,  although  the  position  of 
the  sun  did  not  seem  to  warrant  such  a  defensive  movement 
against  its  rays. 

Nettlewick  sat  up  straight  in  his  chair.  He  had  listened 
patiently,  but  without  consuming  interest,  to  the  major's  story. 
It  had  impressed  him  as  irrelevant  to  the  situation,  and  it 
could  certainly  have  no  effect  upon  the  consequences.  Those 
Western  people,  he  thought,  had  an  exaggerated  sentimen 
tality.  They  were  not  business-like.  They  needed  to  be  pro 
tected  from  their  friends.  Evidently  the  major  had  con 
cluded.  And  what  he  had  said  amounted  to  nothing. 

"May  I  ask,"  said  the  examiner,  "if  you  have  anything 
further  to  say  that  bears  directly  upon  the  question  of  those 
abstracted  securities?" 

"Abstracted  securities,  sir!"  Major  Tom  turned  suddenly 
in  his  chair,  his  blue  eyes  flashing  upon  the  examiner.  "What 
do  you  mean,  sir?" 

He  drew  from  his  coat  pocket  a  batch  of  folded   papers 


Friends  in  San  Rosario  169 

held  together  by  a  rubber  band,  tossed  them  into  Nettlewick's 
hands,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"You'll  find  those  securities  there,  sir,  every  stock,  bond, 
and  share  of  'em.  I  took  them  from  the  notes  while  you  were 
counting  the  cash.  Examine  and  compare  them  for  yourself/' 

The  major  led  the  way  back  into  the  banking  room.  The 
examiner,  astounded,  perplexed,  nettled,  at  sea,  followed.  He 
felt  that  he  had  been  made  the  victim  of  something  that  was  not 
exactly  a  hoax,  but  that  left  him  in  the  shoes  of  one  who  had 
been  played  upon,  used,  and  then  discarded,  without  even  an 
inkling  of  the  game.  Perhaps,  also,  his  official  position  had 
been  irreverently  juggled  with.  But  there  was  nothing  he 
could  take  hold  of.  An  official  report  of  the  matter  would  be 
an  absurdity.  And,  somehow,  he  felt  that  he  would  never 
know  anything  more  about  the  matter  than  he  did  then. 

Frigidly,  mechanically,  Nettlewick  examined  the  securities, 
found  them  to  tally  with  the  notes,  gathered  his  black  wallet, 
and  rose  to  depart. 

"I  will  say,"  he  protested,  turning  the  indignant  glare  of 
his  glasses  upon  Major  Kingman,  "that  your  statements  — 
your  misleading  statements,  which  you  have  not  condescended 
to  explain  —  do  not  appear  to  be  quite  the  thing,  regarded 
either  as  business  or  humour.  I  do  not  understand  such 
motives  or  actions." 

Major  Tom  looked  down  at  him  serenely  and  not  unkindly. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "there  are  plenty  of  things  in  the  chapar 
ral,  and  on  the  prairies,  and  up  the  canons  that  you  don't 
understand.  But  I  want  to  thank  you  for  listening  to  a  gar 
rulous  old  man's  prosy  story.  We  old  Texans  love  to  talk 
about  our  adventures  and  our  old  comrades,  and  the  home 
folks  have  long  ago  learned  to  run  when  we  begin  with  'Once 
upon  a  time,'  so  we  have  to  spin  our  yarns  to  the  stranger 
within  our  gates." 

The  major  smiled,  but  the  examiner  only  bowed  coldly, 


170  Roads  of  Destiny 

and  abruptly  quitted  the  bank.  They  saw  him  travel  diag* 
onally  across  the  street  in  a  straight  line  and  enter  the  Stock 
men's  National  Bank. 

Major  Tom  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  drew  from  his  vest 
pocket  the  note  Roy  had  given  him.  He  had  read  it  once, 
but  hurriedly,  and  now,  with  something  like  a  twinkle  in  h'S 
eyes,  he  read  it  again.  These  were  the  words  he  read: 

DEAR  TOM: 

I  hear  there's  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  greyhound's  going  through  you, 
and  that  means  that  we'll  catch  him  inside  of  a  couple  of  hours, 
maybe.  Now,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me.  We've  got  just 
$2,200  in  the  bank,  and  the  law  requires  that  we  have  $20,000.  I 
let  Ross  and  Fisher  have  $18,000  late  yesterday  afternoon  to  buy 
up  that  Gibson  bunch  of  cattle.  They'll  realize  $40,000  in  less  than 
thirty  days  on  the  transaction,  but  that  won't  make  my  cash  on 
hand  look  any  prettier  to  that  bank  examiner.  Now,  I  can't  show 
him  those  notes,  for  they're  just  plain  notes  of  hand  without  any 
security  in  sight,  but  you  know  very  well  that  Pink  Ross  and  Jim 
Fisher  are  two  of  the  finest  white  men  God  ever  made,  and  they'll 
do  the  square  thing.  You  remember  Jim  Fisher  —  he  was  the  one 
who  shot  that  faro  dealer  in  El  Paso.  I  wired  Sam  Bradshaw's 
bank  to  send  me  $20,000,  and  it  will  get  in  on  the  narrow-gauge  at 
10.35.  You  can't  let  a  bank  examiner  in  to  count  $2,200  and  close 
your  doors.  Tom,  you  hold  that  examiner.  Hold  him.  Hold  him 
if  you  have  to  rope  him  and  sit  on  his  head.  Watch  our  front  win 
dow  after  the  narrow-gauge  gets  in,  and  when  we've  got  the  cash 
inside  we'll  pull  down  the  shade  for  a  signal.  Don't  turn  him  loose 
till  then.  I'm  counting  on  you,  Tom. 

Your  Old  Pard, 

BOB  BUCKLEY, 
Prest.  Stockmen's  National. 

The  major  began  to  tear  the  note  into  small  pieces  and 
throw  them  into  his  waste  basket.  He  gave  a  satisfied  little 
chuckle  as  he  did  so. 

"Confounded  old  reckless  cowpuncher !"  he  growled,  con 
tentedly,  "that  pays  him  some  on  account  for  what  he  tried 
to  do  for  me  in  the  sheriff's  office  twenty  years  ago/* 


XIII 
THE  FOURTH  IN  SALVADOR 

a  summer's  day,  while  the  city  was  rocking  with  the  din 
and  red  uproar  of  patriotism,  Billy  Casparis  told  me  this  story. 

In  his  way,  Billy  is  Ulysses,  Jr.  Like  Satan,  he  comes 
from  going  to  and  fro  upon  the  earth  and  walking  up  and 
down  in  it.  To-morrow  morning  while  you  are  cracking  your 
breakfast  egg  he  may  be  off  with  his  little  alligator  grip  to 
boom  ~  town  site  in  the  middle  of  Lake  Okeechobee  or  to  trade 
horses  with  the  Patagonians. 

We  sat  at  a  little,  round  table,  and  between  us  were  glasses 
holding  big  lumps  of  ice,  and  above  us  leaned  an  artificial 
palm.  And  because  our  scene  was  set  with  the  properties  of 
the  one  they  recalled  to  his  mind,  Billy  was  stirred  to  nar 
rative. 

"It  reminds  me,"  said  he,  "of  a  Fourth  I  helped  to  cele 
brate  down  in  Salvador.  'Twas  while  I  was  running  an  ice 
factory  down  there,  after  I  unloaded  that  silver  mine  I  had  in 
Colorado.  I  had  what  they  called  a  'conditional  concession.' 
They  made  me  put  up  a  thousand  dollars  cash  forfeit  that  I 
would  make  i_e  continuously  for  six  months.  If  I  did  that  I 
could  draw  down  my  ante.  If  I  failed  to  do  so  the  govern 
ment  took  the  pot.  So  the  inspectors  kept  dropping  in,  trying 
to  catch  me  without  the  goods. 

"One  day  when  the  thermometer  was  at  110,  the  clock  at 
half-past  one,  and  the  calendar  at  July  third,  two  of  the  little, 
brown,  oily  nosers  in  red  trousers  slid  in  to  make  an  inspection. 
Now,  the  factory  hadn't  turned  out  a  pound  of  ice  in  three 

171 


172  Roads  of  Destiny 

weeks,  for  a  couple  of  reasons.  The  Salvador  heathen 
wouldn't  buy  it;  they  said  it  made  things  cold  they  put  it  in. 
And  I  couldn't  make  any  more,  because  I  was  broke.  All  I 
was  holding  on  for  was  to  get  down  my  thousand  so  I  could 
leave  the  country.  The  six  months  would  be  up  on  the  sixth 
of  July. 

"Well,  I  showed  'em  all  the  ice  I  had.  I  raised  the  lid 
of  a  darkish  vat,  and  there  was  an  elegant  100-pound  block 
of  ice,  beautiful  and  convincing  to  the  eye.  I  was  about  to 
close  down  the  lid  again  when  one  of  those  brunette  sleuths 
flops  down  on  his  red  knees  and  lays  a  slanderous  and  violent 
hand  on  my  guarantee  of  good  faith.  And  in  two  minutes 
more  they  had  dragged  out  on  the  floor  that  fine  chunk  of 
molded  glass  that  had  cost  me  fifty  dollars  to  have  shipped 
down  from  Frisco. 

"  'Ice-y?'  says  the  fellow  that  played  me  the  dishonourable 
trick;  'verree  warm  ice-y.  Yes.  The  day  is  that  hot,  senor. 
Yes.  Maybeso  it  is  of  desirableness  to  leave  him  out  to  get 
the  cool.  Yes.' 

'  'Yes,'  says  I,  *yes/  for  I  knew  they  had  me.  'Touch- 
ing's  believing,  ain't  it,  boys?  Yes.  Now  there's  some  might 
say  the  seats  of  your  trousers  are  sky  blue,  but  'tis  my  opinion 
they  are  red.  Let's  apply  the  tests  of  the  laying  on  of  hands 
and  feet.'  And  so  I  hoisted  both  those  inspectors  out  the 
door  on  the  toe  of  my  shoe,  and  sat  down  to  cool  off  on  my 
block  of  disreputable  glass. 

"And,  as  I  live  without  oats,  while  I  sat  there,  homesick 
for  money  and  without  a  cent  to  my  ambition,  there  came  on 
the  breeze  the  most  beautiful  smell  my  nose  had  entered  for  a 
year.  God  knows  where  it  came  from  in  that  backyard  of  a 
country  —  it  was  a  bouquet  of  soaked  lemon  peel,  cigar 
stumps,  and  stale  beer  —  exactly  the  smell  of  Goldbrick 
Charley's  place  on  Fourteenth  Street  where  I  used  to  play 
pinochle  of  afternoons  with  the  third-rate  actors.  Av$  that 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador  173 

smell  drove  my  troubles  through  me  and  clinched  'em  at  the 
back.  I  began  to  long  for  my  country  and  feel  sentiments 
about  it;  and  I  said  words  about  Salvador  that  you  wouldn't 
think  could  come  legitimate  out  of  an  ice  factory. 

"And  while  I  was  sitting  there,  down  through  the  blazing 
sunshine  in  his  clean,  white  clothes  comes  Maximilian  Jones, 
an  American  interested  in  rubber  and  rosewood. 

"  'Great  carrambos !'  says  I,  when  he  stepped  in,  for  I  was 
in  a  bad  temper,  'didn't  I  have  catastrophes  enough?  I  know 
what  you  want.  You  want  to  tell  me  that  story  again  about 
Johnny  Ammiger  and  the  widow  on  the  train.  You've  told 
it  nine  times  already  this  month.' 

"  'It  must  be  the  heat/  says  Jones,  stopping  in  the  door, 
amazed.  'Poor  Billy.  He's  got  bugs.  Sitting  on  ice,  and 
calling  his  best  friends  pseudonyms.  Hi!  —  muchacho!' 
Jones  called  my  force  of  employees,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
sun,  playing  with  his  toes,  and  told  him  to  put  on  his  trousers 
and  run  for  the  doctor. 

'  'Come  back,'  says  I.  'Sit  down,  Maxy,  and  forget  it. 
'Tis  not  ice  you  see,  nor  a  lunatic  upon  it  'Tis  only  an  exile 
full  of  homesickness  sitting  on  a  lump  of  glass  that's  just 
cost  him  a  thousand  dollars.  Now,  what  was  it  Johnny  said 
to  the  widow  first?  I'd  like  to  hear  it  again,  Maxy  —  honest. 
Don't  mind  what  I  said.' 

"Maximilian  Jones  and  I  sat  down  and  talked.  He  was 
about  as  sick  of  the  country  as  I  was,  for  the  grafters  were 
squeezing  him  for  half  the  profits  of  his  rosewood  and  rubber. 
Down  in  the  bottom  of  a  tank  of  water  I  had  a  dozen  bottles 
of  sticky  Frisco  beer;  and  I  fished  these  up,  and  we  fell  to 
talking  about  home  and  the  flag  and  Hail  Columbia  and  home- 
fried  potatoes ;  and  the  drivel  we  contributed  would  have  sick 
ened  any  man  enjoying  those  blessings.  But  at  that  time  we 
were  out  of  'em.  You  can't  appreciate  home  till  you've  left 
it,  money  till  it's  spent,  your  wife  till  she's  joined  a  woman's 


174  Roads  of  Destiny 

club,  nor  Old  Glory  till  you  see  it  hanging  on  a  broomstick  on 
the  shanty  of  a  consul  in  a  foreign  town. 

"And  sitting  there  me  and  Maximilian  Jones,  scratching 
at  our  prickly  heat  and  kicking  at  the  lizards  on  the  floor, 
became  afflicted  with  a  dose  of  patriotism  and  affection  for 
our  country.  There  was  me,  Billy  Casparis,  reduced  from  a 
capitalist  to  a  pauper  by  over-addiction  to  my  glass  (in  the 
lump),  declares  my  troubles  off  for  the  present  and  myself 
to  be  an  uncrowned  sovereign  of  the  greatest  country  on  earth. 
And  Maximilian  Jones  pours  out  whole  drug  stores  of  his 
wrath  on  oligarchies  and  potentates  in  red  trousers  and  calico 
shoes.  And  we  issues  a  declaration  of  interference  in  which 
we  guarantee  that  the  fourth  day  of  July  shall  be  celebrated 
in  Salvador  with  all  the  kinds  of  salutes,  explosions,  honours 
of  war,  oratory,  and  liquids  known  to  tradition.  Yes,  neither 
me  nor  Jones  breathed  with  soul  so  dead.  There  shall  be 
rucuses  in  Salvador,  we  say,  and  the  monkeys  had  better 
climb  the  tallest  cocoanut  trees  and  the  fire  department  get 
out  its  red  sashes  and  two  tin  buckets. 

"About  this  time  into  the  factory  steps  a  native  man 
incriminated  by  the  name  of  General  Mary  Esperanza  Dingo. 
He  was  some  pumpkin  both  in  politics  and  colour,  and  the 
friend  of  me  and  Jones.  He  was  full  of  politeness  and  a 
kind  of  intelligence,  having  picked  up  the  latter  and  managed 
to  preserve  the  former  during  a  two  years'  residence  in 
Philadelphia  studying  medicine.  For  a  Salvadorian  he  was 
not  such  a  calamitous  little  man,  though  he  always  would 
play  jack,  queen,  king,  ace,  deuce  for  a  straight. 

"General  Mary  sits  with  us  and  has  a  bottle.  While  he 
was  in  the  States  he  had  acquired  a  synopsis  of  the  English 
language  and  the  art  of  admiring  our  institutions.  By  and  by 
the  General  gets  up  and  tiptoes  to  the  doors  and  windows  and 
other  stage  entrances,  remarking  'Hist!'  at  each  one.  They 
all  do  that  in  Salvador  before  they  ask  for  a  drink  of  water 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador 

or  the  time  of  day,  being  conspirators  from  the  cradle  and 
matinee  idols  by  proclamation. 

"  'Hist !'  says  General  Dingo  again,  and  then  he  lays  his 
chest  on  the  table  quite  like  Gaspard  the  Miser.  'Good 
friends,  sefiores,  to-morrow  will  be  the  great  day  of  Liberty 
and  Independence.  The  hearts  of  Americans  and  Salvador- 
ians  should  beat  together.  Of  your  history  and  your  great 
Washington  I  know.  Is  it  not  so?' 

"Now,  me  and  Jones  thought  that  nice  of  the  General  to 
remember  when  the  Fourth  came.  It  made  us  feel  good.  He 
must  have  heard  the  news  going  round  in  Philadelphia  about 
that  disturbance  we  had  with  England. 

"  'Yes,'  says  me  and  Maxy  together,  'we  knew  it.  We 
were  talking  about  it  when  you  came  in.  And  you  can  bet 
your  bottom  concession  that  there'll  be  fuss  and  feathers  in  the 
air  to-morrow.  We  are  few  in  numbers,  but  the  welkin  may 
as  well  reach  out  to  push  the  button,  for  it's  got  to  ring.' 

"  'I,  too,  shall  assist,'  says  the  General,  thumping  his 
collar-bone.  'I,  too,  am  on  the  side  of  Liberty.  Noble 
Americans,  we  will  make  the  day  one  to  be  never  forgotten/ 

"  'For  us  American  whisky,'  says  Jones  — 'none  of  your 
Scotch  smoke  or  anisada  or  Three  Star  Hennessey  to-morrow. 
We'll  borrow  the  consul's  flag;  old  man  Billfinger  shall  make 
orations,  and  we'll  have  a  barbecue  on  the  plaza/ 

'  'Fireworks,'  says  I,  'will  be  scarce;  but  we'll  have  all  the 
cartridges  in  the  shops  for  our  guns.  I've  got  two  navy  sixes 
I  brought  from  Denver/ 

"  'There  is  one  cannon,  said  the  General ;  'one  big  cannon 
that  will  go  "BOOM!"  And  three  hundred  men  with  rifles 
to  shoot/ 

"  'Oh,  say !'  says  Jones,  'Generalissimo,  you're  the  real 
silk  elastic.  We'll  make  it  a  joint  international  celebration. 
Please,  General,  get  a  white  horse  and  a  blue  sash  and  be 
grand  marshal/ 


176  Roads  of  Destiny 

'  'With  my  sword/  says  the  General,  rolling  his  eyes,  'I 
shall  ride  at  the  head  of  the  brave  men  who  gather  in  the  name 
of  Liberty." 

"  'And  you  might/  we  suggest,  'see  the  commandante  and 
advise  him  that  we  are  going  to  prize  things  up  a  bit.  We 
Americans,  you  know,  are  accustomed  to  using  municipal 
regulations  for  gun  wadding  when  we  line  up  to  help  the  eagle 
scream.  He  might  suspend  the  rules  for  one  day.  We  don't 
want  to  get  in  the  calaboose  for  spanking  his  soldiers  if  they 
get  in  our  way,  do  you  see?' 

"  'Hist !'  says  General  Mary.  'The  commandant  is  with  us, 
heart  and  soul.  He  will  aid  us.  He  is  one  of  us.' 

"We  made  all  the  arrangements  that  afternoon.  There 
was  a  buck  coon  from  Georgia  in  Salvador  who  had  drifted 
down  there  from  a  busted-up  coloured  colony  that  had  been 
started  on  some  possumless  land  in  Mexico.  As  soon  as  he 
heard  us  say  'barbecue'  he  wept  for  joy  and  groveled  on  the 
ground.  He  dug  his  trench  on  the  plaza,  and  got  half  a  beef 
on  the  coals  for  an  all-night  roast.  Me  and  Maxy  went  to  see 
the  rest  of  the  Americans  in  the  town  and  they  all  sizzled  like 
a  seidlitz  with  joy  at  the  idea  of  solemnizing  an  old-time 
Fourth. 

"There  were  six  of  us  all  together  —  Martin  Dillard,  a 
coffee  planter;  Henry  Barnes,  a  railroad  man;  old  man  Bill- 
finger,  an  educated  tintype  taker;  me  and  Jonesy,  and  Jerry, 
the  boss  of  the  barbecue.  There  was  also  an  Englishman  in 
town  named  Sterrett,  who  was  there  to  write  a  book  on 
Domestic  Architecture  of  the  Insect  World.  We  felt  some 
bashfulness  about  inviting  a  Britisher  to  help  crow  over  his 
own  country,  but  we  decided  to  risk  it,  out  of  our  personal 
regard  for  him. 

"Wre  found  Sterrett  in  pajamas  working  at  his  manuscript 
with  a  bottle  of  brandy  for  a  paper  weight. 

"  'Englishman,'    says    Jones,    'let    us    interrupt   your    dis- 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador  177 

quisition  on  bug  houses  for  a  moment.  To-morrow  is  the 
Fourth  of  July.  We  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but 
we're  going  to  commemorate  the  day  when  we  licked  you  by 
a  little  refined  debauchery  and  nonsense  —  something  that  can 
be  heard  above  five  miles  off.  If  you  are  broad-gauged 
enough  to  taste  whisky  at  your  own  wake,  we'd  be  pleased  to 
have  you  j  oin  us/ 

"  'Do  you  know/  says  Sterrett,  setting  his  glasses  on  his 
nose,  'I  like  your  cheek  in  asking  me  if  I'll  join  you;  blast 
me  if  I  don't.  You  might  have  known  I  would,  without  ask 
ing.  Not  as  a  traitor  to  my  own  country,  but  for  the  intrinsic 
joy  of  a  blooming  row/ 

"On  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  I  woke  up  in  that  old 
shanty  of  an  ice  factory  feeling  sore.  I  looked  around  at  the 
wreck  of  all  I  possessed,  and  my  heart  was  full  of  bile. 
From  where  I  lay  on  my  cot  I  could  look  through  the  window 
and  see  the  consul's  old  ragged  Stars  and  Stripes  hanging  over 
his  shack.  'You're  all  kinds  of  a  fool,  Billy  Casparis,'  I 
says  to  myself;  'and  of  all  your  crimes  against  sense  it  does 
look  like  this  idea  of  celebrating  the  Fourth  should  receive  the 
award  of  demerit.  Your  business  is  busted  up,  your  thousand 
dollars  is  gone  into  the  kitty  of  this  corrupt  country  on  that 
last  bluff  you  made,  you've  got  just  fifteen  Chili  dollars  left, 
worth  forty-six  cents  each  at  bedtime  last  night  and  steadily 
going  down.  To-day  you'll  blow  in  your  last  cent  hurrahing 
for  that  flag,  and  to-morrow  you'll  be  living  on  bananas  from 
the  stalk  and  screwing  your  drinks  out  of  your  friends. 
What's  the  flag  done  for  you?  While  you  were  under  it  you 
worked  for  what  you  got.  You  wore  your  finger  nails  down 
skinning  suckers,  and  salting  mines,  and  driving  bears  and 
alligators  off  your  town  lot  additions.  How  much  does  pa 
triotism  count  for  on  deposit  when  the  little  man  with  the  green 
eye-shade  in  the  savings-bank  adds  up  your  book?  Suppose 
you  were  to  get  pinched  over  here  in  this  irreligious  country 


178  Roads  of  Destiny 

for  some  little  crime  or  other,  and  appealed  to  your  country 
for  protection  —  what  would  it  do  for  you?  Turn  your  ap 
peal  over  to  a  committee  of  one  railroad  man,  an  army  officer, 
a  member  of  each  labour  union,  and  a  coloured  man  to  in 
vestigate  whether  any  of  your  ancestors  were  ever  related  to 
a  cousin  of  Mark  Hanna,  and  then  file  the  papers  in  the 
Smithsonian  Institution  until  after  the  next  election.  That's 
the  kind  of  a  sidetrack  the  Stars  and  Stripes  would  switch 
you  onto.' 

"You  can  see  that  I  was  feeling  like  an  indigo  plant;  but 
after  I  washed  my  face  in  some  cool  water,  and  got  out  my 
navys  and  ammunition,  and  started  up  to  the  Saloon  of  the 
Immaculate  Saints  where  we  were  to  meet,  I  felt  better.  And 
when  I  saw  those  other  American  boys  come  swaggering  into 
the  trysting  place  —  cool,  easy,  conspicuous  fellows,  ready  to 
risk  any  kind  of  a  one-card  draw,  or  to  fight  grizzlies,  fire,  or 
extradition,  I  began  to  feel  glad  I  was  one  of  'em.  So,  I 
says  to  myself  again:  'Billy,  you've  got  fifteen  dollars  and 
a  country  left  this  morning  —  blow  in  the  dollars  and  blow 
up  the  town  as  an  American  gentleman  should  on  Independ 
ence  Day.' 

"It  is  my  recollection  that  we  began  the  day  along  con 
ventional  lines.  The  six  of  us  —  for  Sterrett  was  along  — 
made  progress  among  the  cantinas,  divesting  the  bars  as  we 
went  of  all  strong  drink  bearing  American  labels.  We  kept 
informing  the  atmosphere  as  to  the  glory  and  preeminence  of 
the  United  States  and  its  ability  to  subdue,  out  jump,  and 
eradicate  the  other  nations  of  the  earth.  And,  as  the  find 
ings  of  American  labels  grew  more  plentiful,  we  became  more 
contaminated  with  patriotism.  Maximilian  Jones  hopes  that 
our  late  foe,  Mr.  Sterrett,  will  not  take  offense  at  our  enthusi 
asm.  He  sets  down  his  bottle  and  shakes  Sterrett's  hand. 
'As  white  man  to  white  man,'  says  he,  'denude  our  uproar  of 
the  slightest  taint  of  personality.  Excuse  us  for  Bunker  Hill, 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador  179 

Patrick  Henry,  and  Waldorf  Astor,  and  such  grievances  as 
might  lie  between  us  as  nations." 

"  'Fellow  hoodlums/  says  Sterrett,  'on  behalf  of  the  Queen 
I  ask  you  to  cheese  it.  It  is  an  honour  to  be  a  guest  at  dis 
turbing  the  peace  under  the  American  flag.  Let  us  chant  the 
passionate  strains  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  while  the  senor  be 
hind  the  bar  mitigates  the  occasion  with  another  round  of 
cochineal  and  aqua  fortis/ 

"Old  Man  Billfinger,  being  charged  with  a  kind  of  rhetoric, 
makes  speeches  every  time  we  stop.  We  explained  to  such 
citizens  as  we  happened  to  step  on  that  we  were  celebrating 
the  dawn  of  our  private  brand  of  liberty,  and  to  please 
enter  such  inhumanities  as  we  might  commit  on  the  list  of 
unavoidable  casualties. 

"About  eleven  o'clock  our  bulletins  read:  'A  considerable 
rise  in  temperature,  accompanied  by  thirst  and  other  alarm 
ing  symptoms/  We  hooked  arms  and  stretched  our  line  across 
the  narrow  streets,  all  of  us  armed  with  Winchesters  and 
navys  for  purposes  of  noise  and  without  malice.  We  stopped 
on  a  street  corner  and  fired  a  dozen  or  so  rounds,  and  began 
a  serial  assortment  of  United  States  whoops  and  yells,  prob 
ably  the  first  ever  heard  in  that  town. 

"When  we  made  that  noise  things  began  to  liven  up.  We 
heard  a  pattering  up  a  side  street,  and  here  came  General 
Mary  Esperanza  Dingo  on  a  white  horse  with  a  couple  of 
hundred  brown  boys  following  him  in  red  undershirts  and  bare 
feet,  dragging  guns  ten  feet  long.  Jones  and  me  had  for 
got  all  about  General  Mary  and  his  promise  to  help  us  cele 
brate.  We  fired  another  salute  and  gave  another  yell,  while 
the  General  shook  hands  with  us  and  waved  his  sword. 

"  'Oh,  General,'  shouts  Jones,  'this  is  great.  This  will  be 
a  real  pleasure  to  the  eagle.  Get  down  and  have  a  drink/ 

"'Drink?'  says  the  general.  'No.  There  is  no  time  to 
drink.  Viva  la  Libertad!' 


180  Roads  of  Destiny 

"  'Don't  forget  E  Pluribus  Unum!'  says  Henry  Barnes. 

"  'Viva  it  good  and  strong,'  says  I.  'Likewise,  viva 
George  Washington.  God  save  the  Union,  and,'  I  says,  bow 
ing  to  Sterrett,  'don't  discard  the  Queen.' 

'  'Thanks,'  says  Sterrett.  'The  next  round's  mine.  All 
in  to  the  bar.  Army,  too.' 

"But  we  were  deprived  of  Sterrett's  treat  by  a  lot  of  gun 
shots  several  squares  away,  which  General  Dingo  seemed  to 
think  he  ought  to  look  after.  He  spurred  his  old  white  plug 
up  that  way,  and  the  soldiers  scuttled  along  after  him. 

"  'Mary  is  a  real  tropical  bird,'  says  Jones.  'He's  turned 
out  the  infantry  to  help  us  do  honour  to  the  Fourth.  We'll 
get  that  cannon  he  spoke  of  after  a  while  and  fire  some  win 
dow-breakers  with  it.  But  j  ust  now  I  want  some  of  that  bar 
becued  beef.  Let  us  on  to  the  plaza.' 

"There  we  found  the  meat  gloriously  done,  and  Jerry  wait 
ing,  anxious.  We  sat  around  on  the  grass,  and  got  hunks  of 
it  on  our  tin  plates.  Maximilian  Jones,  always  made  tender 
hearted  by  drink,  cried  some  because  George  Washington 
couldn't  be  there  to  enjoy  the  day.  'There  was  a  man  I 
love,  Billy/  he  says,  weeping  on  my  shoulder.  'Poor  George ! 
To  think  he's  gone,  and  missed  the  fireworks.  A  little  more 
salt,  please,  Jerry.' 

"From  what  we  could  hear,  General  Dingo  seemed  to  be 
kindly  contributing  some  noise  while  we  feasted.  There  were 
guns  going  off  around  town,  and  pretty  soon  we  heard  that 
cannon  go  'BOOM!'  just  as  he  said  it  would.  And  then 
men  began  to  skim  along  the  edge  of  the  plaza,  dodging  in 
among  the  orange  trees  and  houses.  We  certainly  had  things 
stirred  up  in  Salvador.  We  felt  proud  of  the  occasion  and 
grateful  to  General  Dingo.  Sterrett  was  about  to  take  a  bite 
off  a  juicy  piece  of  rib  when  a  bullet  took  it  away  from  his 
mouth. 

"  'Somebody's    celebrating   with   ball   cartridges/    says   fe^ 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador  181 

reaching  for  another  piece.  'Little  over-zealous  for  a  non 
resident  patriot,  isn't  it?' 

"  'Don't  mind  it/  I  says  to  him.  '  'Twas  an  accident. 
They  happen,  you  know,  on  the  Fourth.  After  one  reading 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  in  New  York  I've  known 
the  S.  H.  O.  sign  to  be  hung  out  at  all  the  hospital .  and  po 
lice  stations.' 

"But  then  Jerry  gives  a  howl  and  jumps  up  wit'i  one  hand 
clapped  to  the  back  of  his  leg  where  another  bullet  has  acted 
over-zealous.  And  then  comes  a  quantity  of  yells,  and  round 
a  corner  and  across  the  plaza  gallops  General  Mary  Esperanza 
Dingo  embracing  the  neck  of  his  horse,  with  his  men  run 
ning  behind  him,  mostly  dropping  their  guns  by  way  of  dis 
charging  ballast.  And  chasing  'em  all  is  a  company  of 
feverish  little  warriors  wearing  blue  trousers  and  caps. 

"  'Assistance,  amigos,'  the  General  shouts,  trying  to  stop 
his  horse.  'Assistance,  in  the  name  of  Liberty !' 

'  'That's  the  Compania  Azul,  the  President's  bodyguard,' 
says  Jones.  'What  a  shame!  They've  jumped  on  poor  old 
Mary  just  because  he  was  helping  us  to  celebrate.  Come  on, 
boys,  it's  our  Fourth;  —  do  we  let  that  little  squad  of  A.  D. 
T's  break  it  up?' 

"  'I  vote  No,'  says  Martin  Dillard,  gathering  his  Winches 
ter.  'It's  the  privilege  of  an  American  citizen  to  drink,  drill, 
dress  up,  and  be  dreadful  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  no  matter 
whose  country  he's  in.' 

"  'Fellow  citizens !'  says  old  man  Billfinger,  'In  the  dark 
est  hour  of  Freedom's  birth,  when  our  brave  forefathers  pro 
mulgated  the  principles  of  undying  liberty,  they  never  ex 
pected  that  a  bunch  of  blue  jays  like  that  should  be  allowed 
to  bust  up  an  anniversary.  Let  us  preserve  and  protect  the 
Constitution.' 

"We  made  it  unanimous,  and  then  we  gathered  our  guns 
and  assaulted  the  blue  troops  in  force.  We  fired  over  their 


182  Eoads  of  Destiny 

heads,  and  then  charged  'em  with  a  yell,  and  they  broke  ana 
ran.  We  were  irritated  at  having  our  barbecue  disturbed,  and 
we  chased  'em  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Some  of  'em  we  caught 
and  kicked  hard.  The  General  rallied  his  troops  and  joined 
in  the  chase.  Finally  they  scattered  in  a  thick  banana  grove, 
and  we  couldn't  flush  a  single  one.  So  we  sat  down  and  rested. 

"If  I  \vere  to  be  put,  severe,  through  the  third  degree,  I 
wouldn't  Ix  able  to  tell  much  about  the  rest  of  the  day.  I 
mind  that  we  pervaded  the  town  considerable,  calling  upon 
the  people  to  bring  out  more  armies  for  us  to  destroy.  I  re 
member  seeing  a  crowd  somewhere,  and  a  tall  man  that  wasn't 
Billfinger  making  a  Fourth  of  July  speech  from  a  balcony. 
And  that  was  about  all. 

"Somebody  must  have  hauled  the  old  ice  factory  up  to 
where  I  was,  and  put  it  around  me,  for  there's  where  I  was 
when  I  woke  up  the  next  morning.  As  soon  as  I  could  recol 
lect  my  name  and  address  I  got  up  and  held  an  inquest.  My 
last  cent  was  gone.  I  was  all  in. 

"And  then  a  neat  black  carriage  drives  to  the  door,  and  out 
steps  General  Dingo  and  a  bay  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  tan  shoes. 
1  'Yes/  says  I  to  myself,  'I  see  it  now.  'You're  the  Chief 
de  Policeos  and  High  Lord  Chamberlain  of  the  Calaboosum; 
and  you  want  Billy  Casparis  for  excess  of  patriotism  and 
assault  with  intent.  All  right.  Might  as  well  be  in  jail,  any 
how/ 

"But  it  seems  that  General  Mary  is  smiling,  and  the  bay 
man  shakes  my  hand,  and  speaks  in  the  American  dialect. 

"  'General  Dingo  has  informed  me,  Senor  Casparis,  of 
your  gallant  service  in  our  cause.  I  desire  to  thank  you  with 
my  person.  The  bravery  of  you  and  the  other  senores  Amer 
icanos  turned  the  struggle  for  liberty  in  our  favour.  Our  party 
triumphed.  The  terrible  battle  will  live  forever  in  history.' 

"'Battle?'  says  I;  'what  battle?'  and  I  ran  my  mind 
back  along  history,  trying  to  think. 


The  Fourth  in  Salvador  183 

"  'Senor  Casparis  is  modest/  says  General  Dingo.  'He 
led  his  brave  compadres  into  the  thickest  of  the  fearful  con 
flict.  Yes.  Without  their  aid  the  revolution  would  have 
failed.' 

"  'Why,  now,'  says  I,  'don't  tell  me  there  was  a  revolution 
yesterday.  That  was  only  a  Fourth  of  — ' 

"But  right  there  I  abbreviated.  It  seemed  to  me  it  might 
be  best. 

"  'After  the  terrible  struggle/  says  the  bay  man,  'President 
Bolano  was  forced  to  fly.  To-day  Caballo  is  President  by 
proclamation.  Ah,  yes.  Beneath  the  new  administration  I 
am  the  head  of  the  Department  of  Mercantile  Concessions. 
On  my  file  I  find  one  report,  Senor  Casparis,  that  you  have 
not  made  ice  in  accord  with  your  contract.'  And  here  the  bay 
man  smiles  at  me,  'cute. 

"  'Oh,  well/  says  I,  'I  guess  the  report's  straight.  I  know 
they  caught  me.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.' 

"  'Do  not  say  so,'  says  the  bay  man.  He  pulls  off  a  glove 
and  goes  over  and  lays  his  hand  on  that  chunk  of  glass. 

'  'Ice/  says  he,  nodding  his  head,  solemn. 

"General  Dingo  also  steps  over  and  feels  of  it. 

"  'Ice/  says  the  General;  'I'll  swear  to  it.' 

"  'If  Senor  Casparis/  says  the  bay  man,  'will  present  him 
self  to  the  treasury  on  the  sixth  day  of  this  month  he  will  re 
ceive  back  the  thousand  dollars  he  did  deposit  as  a  forfeit. 
Adios,  senor.' 

"The  General  and  the  bay  man  bowed  themselves  out,  and 
I  bowed  as  often  as  they  did. 

"And  when  the  carriage  rolls  away  through  the  sand  I 
bows  once  more,  deeper  than  ever,  till  my  hat  touches  the 
ground.  But  this  time  'twas  not  intended  for  them.  For, 
over  their  heads,  I  saw  the  old  flag  fluttering  in  the  breeze 
above  the  consul's  roof;  and  'twas  to  it  I  made  my  profound- 
est  salute." 


XIV 
THE  EMANCIPATION  OF  BILLY 

IN  the  old,  old,  square-porticoed  mansion,  with  the  wry 
window-shutters  and  the  paint  peeling  off  in  discoloured 
flakes,  lived  one  of  the  last  of  the  war  governers. 

The  South  has  forgotten  the  enmity  of  the  great  conflict, 
but  it  refuses  to  abandon  its  old  traditions  and  idols.  In 
"Governor"  Pemberton,  as  he  was  still  fondly  called,  the  in 
habitants  of  Elmville  saw  the  relic  of  their  state's  ancient 
greatness  and  glory.  In  his  day  he  had  been  a  man  large  in 
the  eye  of  his  country.  His  state  had  pressed  upon  him  every 
honour  within  its  gift.  And  now  when  he  was  old,  and  en 
joying  a  richly  merited  repose  outside  the  swift  current  of 
public  affairs,  his  townsmen  loved  to  do  him  reverence  for  the 
sake  of  the  past. 

The  Governor's  decaying  "mansion"  stood  upon  the  main 
street  of  Elmville  within  a  few  feet  of  its  rickety  paling- 
fence.  Every  morning  the  Governor  would  descend  the  steps 
with  extreme  care  and  deliberation  —  on  account  of  his  rheu 
matism  —  and  then  the  click  of  his  gold-headed  cane  would 
be  heard  as  he  slowly  proceeded  up  the  rugged  brick  side 
walk.  He  was  now  nearly  seventy-eight,  but  he  had  grown 
old  gracefully  and  beautifully.  His  rather  long,  smooth  hair 
and  flowing,  parted  whiskers  were  snow-white.  His  full- 
skirted  frock-coat  was  always  buttoned  snugly  about  his  tall, 
spare  figure.  He  wore  a  high,  well-kept  silk  hat  —  known 
as  a  "plug"  in  Elmville  —  and  nearly  always  gloves.  His 

184 


i 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  185 

manners  were  punctilious,  and  somewhat  overcharged  with 
courtesy. 

The  Governor's  walks  up  Lee  Avenue,  the  principal  street, 
developed  in  their  course  into  a  sort  of  memorial,  triumphant 
procession.  Everyone  he  met  saluted  him  with  profound  re 
spect.  Many  would  remove  their  hats.  Those  who  were  hon 
oured  with  his  personal  friendship  would  pause  to  shake 
hands,  and  then  you  would  see  exemplified  the  genuine  beau 
ideal  Southern  courtesy. 

Upon  reaching  the  corner  of  the  second  square  from  the 
mansion,  the  Governor  would  pause.  Another  street  crossed 
the  avenue  there,  and  traffic,  to  the  extent  of  several  farmers' 
wagons  and  a  peddler's  cart  or  two,  would  rage  about  the 
junction.  Then  the  falcon  ey*  of  General  Deffenbaugh 
would  perceive  the  situation,  and  the  General  would  hasten., 
with  ponderous  solicitude,  from  his  office  in  the  First  National 
Bank  building  to  the  assistance  of  his  old  friend. 

When  the  two  exchanged  greetings  the  decay  of  modern 
manners  would  become  accusingly  apparent.  The  General's 
bulky  and  commanding  figure  would  bend  lissomely  at  a  point 
where  you  would  have  regarded  its  ability  to  do  so  with 
incredulity.  The  Governor's  cherished  rheumatism  would  be 
compelled,  for  the  moment,  to  give  way  before  a  genuflexion 
brought  down  from  the  days  of  the  cavaliers.  The  Governor 
would  take  the  General's  arm  and  be  piloted  safely  between 
the  hay-wagons  and  the  sprinkling-cart  to  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  Proceeding  to  the  post-office  in  the  care  of  his 
friend,  the  esteemed  statesman  would  there  hold  an  informal 
levee  among  the  citizens  who  were  come  for  their  morning 
mail.  Here,  gathering  two  or  three  prominent  in  law,  poli 
tics,  or  family,  the  pageant  would  make  a  stately  progress 
along  the  Avenue,  stopping  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  where,  per 
haps,  would  be  found  upon  the  register  the  name  of  some 
guest  deemed  worthy  of  an  introduction  to  the  state's  vener- 


186  Roads  of  Destiny 

able  and  illustrious  son.  If  any  such  were  found,  an  hour  or 
two  would  be  spent  in  recalling  the  faded  glories  of  the  Gov 
ernor's  long-vanished  administration. 

On  the  return  march  the  General  would  invariably  sug 
gest  that,  His  Excellency  being  no  doubt  fatigued,  it  would 
be  wise  to  recuperate  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  Drug  Em 
porium  of  Mr.  Appleby  R.  Fentress  (an  elegant  gentleman, 
sir  —  one  of  the  Chatham  County  Fentresses  —  so  many  of 
our  best-blooded  families  have  had  to  go  into  trade,  sir,  since 
the  war). 

Mr.  Appleby  R.  Fentress  was  a  connoisseur  in  fatigue.  In 
deed,  if  he  had  not  been,  his  memory  alone  should  have  en^ 
abled  him  to  prescribe,  for  the  majestic  invasion  of  his 
pharmacy  was  a  casual  hap^ning  that  had  surprised  him  al 
most  daily  for  years.  Mr.  Fentress  knew  the  formula  of, 
and  possessed  the  skill  to  compound,  a  certain  potion  antago 
nistic  to  fatigue,  the  salient  ingredient  of  which  he  described 
(no  doubt  in  pharmaceutical  terms)  as  "genuine  old  hand 
made  Clover  Leaf  '59,  Private  Stock." 

Nor  did  the  ceremony  of  administering  the  potion  ever 
vary.  Mr.  Tentress  would  first  compound  two  of  the  cele 
brated  mixtures  —  one  for  the  Governor,  and  the  other  for 
the  General  to  "sample."  Then  the  Governor  would  make 
this  little  speech  in  his  high,  piping,  quavering  voice: 

"No,  sir  —  not  one  drop  until  you  have  prepared  one  for 
yourself  and  join  us,  Mr.  Fentress.  Your  father,  sir,  was  one 
of  my  most  valued  supporters  and  friends  during  My  Admin 
istration,  and  any  mark  of  esteem  I  can  confer  upon  his  son 
is  not  only  a  pleasure  but  a  duty,  sir." 

Blushing  with  delight  at  the  royal  condescension,  the  drug 
gist  would  obey,  and  all  would  drink  to  the  General's  toast: 
"The  prosperity  r ;  our  grand  old  state,  gentlemen  —  the 
memory  of  her  glorious  past  —  the  health  of  her  Favourite 
Gon  " 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  187 

Some  one  of  the  Old  Guard  was  always  at  hand  to  escort 
the  Governor  home.  Sometimes  the  General's  business  duties 
denied  him  the  privilege,  and  then  Judge  Broomfield  or  Col 
onel  Titus,  or  one  of  the  Ashford  County  Slaughters  would 
be  on  hand  to  perform  the  rite. 

Such  were  the  observances  attendant  upon  the  Governor's 
morning  stroll  to  the  post-office.  How  much  more  magnifi 
cent,  impressive,  and  spectacular,  then,  was  the  scene  at  pub 
lic  functions  when  the  General  would  lead  forth  the  silver- 
haired  relic  of  former  greatness,  like  some  rare  and  fragile 
waxwork  figure,  and  trumpet  his  pristine  eminence  to  his  fel 
low  citizens ! 

General  DefFenbaugh  was  the  Voice  of  Elmville.  Some 
said  he  was  Elmville.  At  any  rate,  he  had  no  competitor  as 
the  Mouthpiece.  He  owned  enough  stock  in  the  Daily  Ban 
ner  to  dictate  its  utterance,  enough  shares  in  the  First  Na 
tional  Bank  to  be  the  referee  of  its  loans,  and  a  war  record 
that  left  him  without  a  rival  for  first  place  at  barbecues, 
school  commencements,  and  Decoration  Days.  Besides  these 
acquirements  he  was  possessed  with  endowments.  His  per 
sonality  was  inspiring  and  triumphant.  Undisputed  sway 
had  moulded  him  to  the  likeness  of  a  fatted  Roman  emperor. 
The  tones  of  his  voice  were  not  otherwise  than  clarion.  To 
say  that  the  General  was  public-spirited  would  fall  short  of 
doing  him  justice.  He  had  spirit  enough  for  a  dozen  pub 
lics.  And  as  a  sure  foundation  for  it  all,  he  had  a  heart 
that  was  big  and  stanch.  Yes;  General  DefFenbaugh  was 
Elmville. 

One  little  incident  that  usually  occurred  during  the  Gov» 
ernor's  morning  walk  has  had  its  chronicling  delayed  by  more 
important  matters.  The  procession  was  accustomed  to  halfc 
before  a  small  brick  office  on  the  Avenue,  fronted  by  a  short 
flight  of  steep  wooden  steps.  A  modest  tin  sign  over  the 
door  bore  the  words:  "Win.  B.  Pemberton:  Attorney-at-Law." 


188  Roads  of  Destiny 

Looking  inside,  the  General  would  roar:  "Hello,  Billy, 
my  boy."  The  less-distinguished  members  of  the  escort 
would  call:  "Morning,  Billy."  The  Governor  would  pipe: 
"Good-morning,  William." 

Then  a  patient-looking  little  man  with  hair  turning  gray 
along  the  temples  would  come  down  the  steps  and  shake  hands 
with  each  one  of  the  party.  All  Elmville  shook  hands  when 
it  met. 

The  formalities  concluded,  the  little  man  would  go  back  to 
his  table,  heaped  with  law  books  and  papers,  while  the  pro 
cession  would  proceed. 

Billy  Pemberton  was,  as  his  sign  declared,  a  lawyer  by  pro 
fession.  By  occupation  and  common  consent  he  was  the  Son 
of  his  Father.  This  was  the  shadow  in  which  Billy  lived,  the 
pit  out  of  which  he  had  unsuccessfully  striven  for  years  to 
climb  and,  he  had  come  to  believe,  the  grave  in  which  his 
ambitions  were  destined  to  be  buried.  Filial  respect  and  duty 
he  paid  beyond  the  habit  of  most  sons,  but  he  aspired  to  be 
known  and  appraised  by  his  own  deeds  and  worth. 

After  many  years  of  tireless  labour  he  had  become  known 
in  certain  quarters  far  from  Elmville  as  a  master  of  the 
principles  of  the  law.  Twice  he  had  gone  to  Washington  and 
argued  cases  before  the  highest  tribunal  with  such  acute  logic 
and  learning  that  the  silken  gowns  on  the  bench  had  rustled 
from  the  force  of  it.  His  income  from  his  practice  had 
grown  until  he  was  able  to  support  his  father,  in  the  old  fam 
ily  mansion  (which  neither  of  them  would  have  thought  of 
abandoning,  rickety  as  it  was)  in  the  comfort  and  almost  the 
luxury  of  the  old  extravagant  days.  Yet,  he  remained  to 
Elmville  as  only  "Billy"  Pemberton,  the  son  of  our  distin 
guished  and  honoured  fellow-townsman,  "ex-Governor  Pem 
berton."  Thus  was  he  introduced  at  public  gatherings  where 
lie  sometimes  spoke,  haltingly  and  prosily,  for  his  talents  were 
too  serious  and  deep  for  extempore  brilliancy;  thus  was  he 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  189 

presented  to  strangers  and  to  the  lawyers  who  made  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  courts;  and  so  the  Daily  Banner  referred  to  him 
in  print.  To  be  "the  son  of"  was  his  doom.  What  ever  he 
should  accomplish  would  have  to  be  sacrificed  upon  the  altar 
of  this  magnificent  but  fatal  parental  precedence. 

The  peculiarity  and  the  saddest  thing  about  Billy's  ambi 
tion  was  that  the  only  world  he  thirsted  to  conquer  was  Elm- 
ville.  His  nature  was  diffident  and  unassuming.  National  or 
State  honours  might  have  oppressed  him.  But,  above  all 
things,  he  hungered  for  the  appreciation  of  the  friends  among 
whom  he  had  been  born  and  raised.  He  would  not  have 
plucked  one  leaf  from  the  garlands  that  were  so  lavishly  be 
stowed  upon  his  father,  he  merely  rebelled  against  having 
his  own  wreaths  woven  from  those  dried  and  self-same 
branches.  But  Elmville  "Billied"  and  "sonned"  him  to 
his  concealed  but  lasting  chagrin,  until  at  length  he  grew  more 
reserved  and  formal  and  studious  than  ever. 

There  came  a  morning  when  Billy  found  among  his  mail 
a  letter  from  a  very  high  source,  tendering  him  the  appoint 
ment  to  an  important  judicial  position  in  the  new  island 
possessions  of  our  country.  The  honour  was  a  distinguished 
one,  for  the  entire  nation  had  discussed  the  probable  recipients 
of  these  positions,  and  had  agreed  that  the  situation  demanded 
only  men  of  the  highest  character,  ripe  learning,  and  evenly 
balanced  mind. 

Billy  could  not  subdue  a  certain  exultation  at  this  token 
of  the  success  of  his  long  and  arduous  labours,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  a  whimsical  smile  lingered  around  his  mouth,  for 
he  foresaw  in  which  column  Elmville  would  place  the  credit. 
"We  congratulate  Governor  Pemberton  upon  the  mark  of  ap 
preciation  conferred  upon  his  son" — "Elmville  rejoices  with 
our  honoured  citizen,  Governor  Pemberton,  at  his  son's  suc 
cess"— "Put  her  there,  Billy  .'"—"Judge  Billy  Pemberton, 
sir;  son  of  our  State's  war  hero  and  the  people's  pride!" — 


190  Roads  of  Destiny 

these  were  the  phrases,  printed  and  oral,  conjured  up  by 
Billy's  prophetic  fancy.  Grandson  of  his  State,  and  stepchild 
to  Elmville  —  thus  had  fate  fixed  his  kinship  to  the  body 
politic. 

Billy  lived  with  his  father  in  the  old  mansion.  The  two 
and  an  elderly  lady  —  a  distant  relative  —  comprised  the 
family.  Perhaps,  though,  old  Jeff,  the  Governor's  ancient 
coloured  body-servant,  should  be  included.  Without  doubt, 
he  would  have  claimed  the  honour.  There  were  other  servants, 
but  Thomas  Jefferson  Pemberton,  sah,  was  a  member  of  "de 
fambly." 

Jeff  was  the  one  Elmvillian  who  gave  to  Billy  the  gold  of 
approval  unmixed  with  the  alloy  of  paternalism.  To  him 
"Mars  William"  was  the  greatest  man  in  Talbot  County. 
Beaten  upon  though  he  was  by  the  shining  light  that  emanates 
from  an  ex-war  governor,  and  loyal  as  he  remained  to  the  old 
regime,  his  faith  and  admiration  were  Billy's.  As  valet  to  a 
hero,  and  a  member  of  the  family,  he  may  have  had  superior 
opportunities  for  judging. 

Jeff  was  the  first  one  to  whom  Bill  revealed  the  news. 
When  he  reached  home  for  supper  Jeff  took  his  "plug" 
hat  and  smoothed  it  before  hanging  it  upon  the  hall-rack. 

"Dar  now!"  said  the  old  man:  "I  knowed  it  was  er  comin*. 
I  knowed  it  was  gwine  ter  happen.  Er  Judge,  you  says, 
Mars  William?  Dem  Yankees  done  made  you  er  judge?  It's 
high  time,  sah,  dey  was  doin'  somep'n  to  make  up  for  dey 
rescality  endurin'  de  war.  I  boun'  dey  holds  a  confab  and 
says:  'Le's  make  Mars  William  Pemberton  er  judge,  and 
dat'll  settle  it.'  Does  you  have  to  go  way  down  to  dem  Filly- 
pines,  Mars  William,  or  kin  you  judge  'em  from  here?" 

"I'd  have  to  live  there  most  of  the  time,  of  course,"  said 
Billy. 

"I  wonder  what  de  Gubnor  gwine  say  'bout  dat,"  specu 
lated  Jeff. 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  191 

Billy  wondered  too. 

After  supper,  when  the  two  sat  ir  the  library,  according 
to  their  habit,  the  Governor  smoking  his  clay  pipe  and  Billy 
his  cigar,  the  son  dutifully  confessed  to  having  been  tendered 
the  appointment. 

For  a  long  time  the  Governor  sat,  ,-inoking,  without  making 
any  comment.  Billy  reclined  in  his  favourite  rocker,  waiting, 
perhaps  still  flushed  with  satisfaction  over  the  tender  that 
had  come  to  him,  unsolicited,  in  his  dingy  little  office,  above 
the  heads  of  the  intriguing,  time-serving,  clamorous  multitude. 

At  last  the  Governor  spoke;  and,  though  his  words  were 
seemingly  irrelevant,  they  were  to  the  point.  His  voice  had 
a  note  of  martyrdom  running  through  its  senile  quaver. 

"My  rheumatism  has  been  growing  stesdily  worse  these 
past  months,  William." 

"I  am  sorry,  father,"  said  Billy,  gently. 

"And  I  am  nearly  seventy-eight.  I  am  getting  to  be  an 
old  man.  I  can  recall  the  names  of  but  two  or  three  who 
were  in  public  life  during  My  Administration.  What  did  you 
say  is  the  nature  of  this  position  that  is  offered  you,  William?" 

"A  Federal  judgeship,  farther.  I  believe  it  is  considered 
to  be  a  somewhat  flattering  tender.  It  is  outside  of  politics 
and  wire-pulling,  you  know." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Few  of  the  Pembertons  have  en 
gaged  in  professional  life  for  nearly  a  century.  None  of 
them  have  ever  held  Federal  positions.  They  have  been  land 
holders,  slave-owners,  and  planters  on  a  large  scale.  One  or 
two  of  the  Derwents  —  your  mother's  family  —  were  in  the 
law.  Have  you  decided  to  accept  this  appointment,  Wil 
liam?" 

"I  am  thinking  it  over,"  said  Billy,  slowly,  regarding  the 
ash  of  his  cigar. 

"You  have  been  a  good  son  to  me,"  continued  the  Gov 
ernor,  stirring  his  pipe  with  the  handle  of  a  penholder. 


192  Roads  of  Destiny 

"I've  been  your  son  all  my  life,"  said  Billy,  darkly. 

"I  am  often  gratified,"  piped  the  Governor,  betraying  a 
touch  of  complacency,  "by  being  congratulated  upon  having 
a  son  with  such  sound  and  sterling  qualities.  Especially  in 
this,  our  native  town,  is  your  name  linked  with  mine  in  the 
talk  of  our  citizens." 

"I  never  knew  anyone  to  forget  the  vinculum,"  murmured 
Billy,  unintelligibly. 

"Whatever  prestige,"  pursued  the  parent,  "I  may  be  pos 
sessed  of,  by  virtue  of  my  name  and  services  to  the  state, 
has  been  yours  to  draw  upon  freely.  I  have  not  hesitated  to 
exert  it  in  your  behalf  whenever  opportunity  offered.  And 
you  have  deserved  it,  William.  You've  been  the  best  of  sons. 
And  now  this  appointment  comes  to  take  you  away  from  me. 
I  have  but  a  few  years  left  to  live.  I  am  almost  dependent 
upon  others  now,  even  in  walking  and  dressing.  What  would 
I  do  without  you,  my  son  ?" 

The  Governor's  pipe  dropped  to  the  floor.  A  tear  trickled 
from  his  eye.  His  voice  had  risen,  and  crumbled  to  a 
weakling  falsetto,  and  ceased.  He  was  an  old,  old  man  about 
to  be  bereft  of  the  son  that  cherished  him. 

Billy  rose,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  Governor's  shoulder. 

"Don't  worry,  father,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "I'm  not 
going  to  accept.  Elmville  is  good  enough  for  me.  I'll  write 
to-night  and  decline  it." 

At  the  next  interchange  of  devoirs  between  the  Governor 
and  General  Deffenbaugh  on  Lee  Avenue,  His  Excellency, 
with  a  comfortable  air  of  self-satisfaction,  spoke  of  the  ap 
pointment  that  had  been  tendered  to  Billy. 

The  General  whistled. 

"That's  a  plum  for  Billy,"  he  shouted.  "Who'd  have 
thought  that  Billy  —  but,  confound  it,  it's  been  in  him  all  the 
time.  It's  a  boost  for  Elmville.  It'll  send  real  estate  up. 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  193 

It's  an  honour  to  our  state.  It's  a  compliment  to  the  South. 
We've  all  been  blind  about  Billy.  When  does  he  leave?  We 
must  have  a  reception.  Great  Catlings !  that  job's  eight  thou 
sand  a  year!  There's  been  a  car-load  of  lead-pencils  worn 
to  stubs  figuring  on  those  appointments.  Think  of  it!  Our 
little,  wood-sawing,  mealy-mouthed  Billy !  Angel  unawares 
doesn't  begin  to  express  it.  Elmville  is  disgraced  forever 
unless  she  lines  up  in  a  hurry  for  ratification  and  apology." 

The  venerable  Moloch  smiled  fatuously.  He  carried  the 
fire  with  which  to  consume  all  these  tributes  to  Billy,  the 
smoke  of  which  would  ascend  as  an  incense  to  himself. 

"William,"  said  the  Governor,  with  modest  pride,  "has 
declined  the  appointment.  He  refuses  to  leave  me  in  my  old 
age.  He  is  a  good  son." 

The  General  swung  around,  and  laid  a  large  forefinger  upon 
the  bosom  of  his  friend.  Much  of  the  General's  success  had 
been  due  to  his  dexterity  in  establishing  swift  lines  of  com 
munication  between  cause  and  effect. 

"Governor,"  he  said,  with  a  keen  look  in  his  big,  ox-like 
eyes,  "you've  been  complaining  to  Billy  about  your  rheuma 
tism." 

"My  dear  General,"  replied  the  Governor,  stiffly,  "my 
son  is  forty-two.  He  is  quite  capable  of  deciding  such  ques 
tions  for  himself.  And  I,  as  his  parent,  feel  it  my  duty  to 
state  that  your  remark  about  —  er  —  rheumatism  is  a  mighty 
poor  shot  from  a  very  small  bore,  sir,  aimed  at  a  purely  per 
sonal  and  private  affliction." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  retorted  the  General,  "you've 
afflicted  the  public  with  it  for  some  time;  and  'twas  no  small 
bore,  at  that." 

This  first  tiff  between  the  two  old  comrades  might  have 
grown  into  something  more  serious,  but  for  the  fortunate  in 
terruption  caused  by  the  ostentatious  approach  of  Colonel 


194i  Roads  of  Destiny 

Titus  and  another  one  of  the  court  retinue  from  the  right 
county,  to  whom  the  General  confided  the  coddled  statesman 
and  went  his  way. 

After  Billy  had  so  effectually  entombed  his  ambitions,  and 
taken  the  veil,  so  to  speak,  in  a  sonnery,  he  was  surprised 
to  discover  how  much  lighter  of  heart  and  happier  he  felt. 
He  realized  what  a  long,  restless  struggle  he  had  maintained, 
and  how  much  he  had  lost  by  failing  to  cull  the  simple  but 
wholesome  pleasures  by  the  way.  His  heart  warmed  now  to 
Elmville  and  the  friends  who  had  refused  to  set  him  upon 
a  pedestal.  It  was  better,  he  began  to  think,  to  be  "Billy" 
and  his  father's  son,  and  to  be  hailed  familiarly  by  cheery 
neighbours  and  grown-up  playmates,  than  to  be  "Your  Hon 
our,"  and  sit  among  strangers,  hearing,  maybe,  through  the 
arguments  of  learned  counsel,  that  old  man's  feeble  voice 
crying:  "What  would  I  do  without  you,  my  son?" 

Billy  began  to  surprise  his  acquaintances  by  whistling  as 
he  walked  up  the  street;  others  he  astounded  by  slapping 
them  disrespectfully  upon  their  backs  and  raking  up  old 
anecdotes  he  had  not  had  the  time  to  recollect  for  years. 
Though  he  hammered  away  at  his  law  cases  as  thoroughly  as 
erer,  he  found  more  time  for  relaxation  and  the  company  of 
his  friends.  Some  of  the  younger  set  were  actually  after 
him  to  join  the  golf  club.  A  striking  proof  of  his  abandon 
ment  to  obscurity  was  his  adoption  of  a  most  undignified, 
rakish,  little  soft  hat,  reserving  the  "plug"  for  Sundays  and 
state  occasions.  Billy  was  beginning  to  enjoy  Elmville, 
though  that  irreverent  burgh  had  neglected  to  crown  him  with 
bay  and  myrtle. 

All  the  while  uneventful  peace  pervaded  Elmville.  The 
Governor  continued  to  make  his  triumphal  parades  to  the 
post-office  with  the  General  as  chief  marshal,  for  the  slight 
squall  that  had  rippled  their  friendship  had,  to  all  indications, 
been  forgotten  by  both. 


The  Emancipation  of  Billy  195 

But  one  day  Elmville  woke  to  sudden  excitement.  The 
news  had  come  that  a  touring  presidential  party  would  hon 
our  Elmville  by  a  twenty-minute  stop.  The  Executive  had 
promised  a  five-minute  address  from  the  balcony  of  the  Palace 
Hotel. 

Elmville  arose  as  one  man  —  that  man  being,  of  course, 
General  DefFenbaugh  —  to  receive  becomingly  the  chieftain 
of  all  the  clans.  The  train  with  the  tiny  Stars  and  Stripes 
fluttering  from  the  engine  pilot  arrived.  Elmville  had  done 
her  best.  There  were  bands,  flowers,  carriages,  uniforms, 
banners,  and  committees  without  end.  High-school  girls  in 
white  frocks  impeded  the  steps  of  the  party  with  roses  strewn 
nervously  in  bunches.  The  chieftain  had  seen  it  all  before  — 
scores  of  times.  He  could  have  pictured  it  exactly  in  advance, 
from  the  Blue-and-Gray  speech  down  to  the  smallest  rose 
bud.  Yet  his  kindly  smile  of  interest  greeted  Elmville's  dis 
play  as  if  it  had  been  the  only  and  original. 

In  the  upper  rotunda  of  the  Palace  Hotel  the  town's  most 
illustrious  were  assembled  for  the  honour  of  being  presented 
to  the  distinguished  guests  previous  to  the  expected  address. 
Outside,  Elmville's  inglorious  but  patriotic  masses  filled  the 
streets. 

Here,  in  the  hotel  General  DefFenbaugh  was  holding  in 
reserve  Elmville's  trump  card.  Elmville  knew ;  for  the  trump 
was  a  fixed  one,  and  its  lead  consecrated  by  archaic  custom. 

At  the  proper  moment  Governor  Pemberton,  beautifully 
venerable,  magnificently  antique,  tall,  paramount,  stepped 
forward  upon  the  arm  of  the  General. 

Elmville  watched  and  harked  with  bated  breath.  Never 
until  now  —  when  a  Northern  President  of  the  United  States 
should  clasp  hands  with  ex-war-Governor  Pemberton  would 
the  breach  be  entirely  closed  —  would  the  country  be  made 
one  and  indivisible  —  no  North,  not  much  South,  very  little 
East,  and  no  West  to  speak  of.  So  Elmville  excitedly  scraped 


196  Roads  of  Destiny 

kalsomine  from  the  walls  of  the  Palace  Hotel  with  its  Sun 
day  best,  and  waited  for  the  Voice  to  speak. 

And  Billy!  We  had  nearly  forgotten  Billy.  He  was  cast 
for  Son,  and  he  waited  patiently  for  his  cue.  He  carried 
his  "plug"  in  his  hand,  and  felt  serene.  He  admired  his 
father's  striking  air  and  pose.  After  all,  it  was  a  great 
deal  to  be  son  of  a  man  who  could  so  gallantly  hold  the  po 
sition  of  a  cynosure  for  three  generations. 

General  Deffenbaugh  cleared  his  throat.  Elmville  opened 
its  mouth,  and  squirmed.  The  chieftain  with  the  kindly,  fate 
ful  face  was  holding  out  his  hand,  smiling.  Ex-war-Gov- 
ernor  Pemberton  extended  his  own  across  the  chasm.  But 
what  was  this  the  General  was  saying? 

"Mr.  President,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  one  who  has 
the  honour  to  be  the  father  of  our  foremost,  distinguished 
citizen,  learned  and  honoured  jurist,  beloved  townsman,  and 
model  Southern  gentleman  —  the  Honourable  William  B.  Pem 
berton." 


XV 
THE  ENCHANTED  KISS 

BUT  a  clerk  in  the  Cut-rate  Drug  Store  was  Samuel  Tansey, 
yet  his  slender  frame  was  a  pad  that  enfolded  the  passion 
of  Romeo,  the  gloom  of  Lara,  the  romance  of  D'Artagnan, 
and  the  desperate  inspiration  of  Melnotte.  Pity,  then,  that 
he  had  been  denied  expression,  that  he  was  doomed  to  the 
burden  of  utter  timidity  and  diffidence,  that  Fate  had  set  him 
tongue-tied  and  scarlet  before  the  muslin-clad  angels  whom 
he  adored  and  vainly  longed  to  rescue,  clasp,  comfort,  and 
subdue. 

The  clock's  hands  were  pointing  close  upon  the  hour  of 
ten  while  Tansey  was  playing  billiards  with  a  number  of  his 
friends.  On  alternate  evenings  he  was  released  from  duty 
at  the  ntore  after  seven  o'clock.  Even  among  his  fellow- 
men  Tansey  was  timorous  and  constrained.  In  his  imagina 
tion  he  had  done  valiant  deeds  and  performed  acts  of  dis 
tinguished  gallantry;  but  in  fact  he  was  a  sallow  youth  of 
twenty-three,  with  an  over-modest  demeanor  and  scant  vo 
cabulary. 

When  the  clock  struck  ten,  Tansey  hastily  laid  down  his 
cue  and  struck  sharply  upon  the  show-case  with  a  coin  for 
the  attendance  to  come  and  receive  the  pay  for  his  score. 

"What's  your  hurry,  Tansey?"  called  one.  "Got  another 
engagement?" 

"Tansey  got  an  engagement!"  echoed  another.  "Not  on 
your  life.  Tansey's  got  to  get  home  at  Motten  by  her  Peek's 
orders." 

197 


198  Roads  of  Destiny 

"It's  no  such  thing,"  chimed  in  a  pale  youth,  taking  a 
large  cigar  from  his  mouth;  "Tansey's  afraid  to  be  late 
because  Miss  Katie  might  come  down  stairs  to  unlock  the 
door,  and  kiss  him  in  the  hall." 

This  delicate  piece  of  raillery  sent  a  fiery  tingle  into 
Tansey's  blood,  for  the  indictment  was  true  —  barring  the 
kiss.  That  was  a  thing  to  dream  of;  to  wildly  hope  for; 
but  too  remote  and  sacred  a  thing  to  think  of  lightly. 

Casting  a  cold  and  contemptuous  look  at  the  speaker  —  a 
punishment  commensurate  with  his  own  diffident  spirit  —  Tan- 
sey  left  the  room,  descending  the  stairs  into  the  street. 

For  two  years  he  had  silently  adored  Miss  Peek,  wor 
shipping  her  from  a  spiritual  distance  through  which  her 
attractions  took  on  stellar  brightness  and  mystery.  Mrs.  Peek 
kept  a  few  choice  boarders,  among  whom  was  Tansey.  The 
other  young  men  romped  vith  Katie,  chased  her  with  crickets 
in  their  fingers,  and  "jollied"  her  with  an  irreverent  freedom 
that  turned  Tansey's  heart  into  cold  lead  in  his  bosom.  The 
signs  of  his  adoration  were  few  —  a  tremulous  "Good  morn 
ing,"  stealthy  glances  at  her  during  meals,  and  occasionally 
(Oh,  rapture !)  a  blushing,  delirious  game  of  cribbage  with 
her  in  the  parlour  on  some  rare  evening  when  a  miraculous 
lack  of  engagement  kept  her  at  home.  Kiss  him  in  the  hall! 
Aye,  he  feared  it,  but  it  was  an  ecstatic  fear  such  as  Elijah 
must  have  felt  when  the  chariot  lifted  him  into  the  unknown. 

Bui  to-night  the  gibes  of  his  associates  had  stung  him  to 
a  feeling  of  forward,  lawless  mutiny;  a  defiant,  challenging, 
atavistic  recklessness.  Spirit  of  corsair,  adventurer,  lover, 
poet,  bohemian,  possessed  him.  The  stars  he  saw  above  him 
seemed  no  more  unattainable,  no  less  high,  than  the  favour  of 
Miss  Peek  or  the  fearsome  sweetness  of  her  delectable  lips. 
His  fate  seemed  to  him  strangely  dramatic  and  pathetic,  and 
to  call  for  a  solace  consonant  with  its  extremity.  A  saloon 
was  near  by,  and  to  this  he  flitted,  calling  for  absinthe — • 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  199 

beyond  doubt  the  drink  most  adequate  to  his  mood  —  the 
tipple  of  the  roue,  the  abandoned,  the  vainly  sighing  lover. 

Once  he  drank  of  it,  and  again,  and  then  again  until  he 
felt  a  strange,  exalted  sense  of  non-participation  in  worldly 
affairs  pervade  him.  Tansey  was  no  drinker ;  his  consumption 
of  three  absinthe  anisettes  within  almost  as  few  minutes  pro 
claimed  his  unproficiency  in  the  art;  Tansey  was  merely  flood 
ing  with  unproven  liquor  his  sorrows;  which  record  and  tra 
dition  alleged  to  be  drownable. 

Coming  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  he  snapped  his  fingers  de 
fiantly  in  the  direction  of  The  Peek  homestead,  turned  the 
other  way,  and  voyaged,  Columbus-like,  into  the  wilds  of  an 
enchanted  street.  Nor  is  the  figure  exorbitant,  for,  beyond 
his  store  the  foot  of  Tansey  had  scarcely  been  set  for  years  — 
store  and  boarding-house;  between  these  ports  he  was  char 
tered  to  run,  and  contrary  currents  had  rarely  deflected  his 
prow. 

Tansey  aimlessly  protracted  his  walk,  and,  whether  it  was 
his  unfamiliarity  with  the  district,  his  recent  accession  of 
audacious  errantry,  or  the  sophistical  whisper  of  a  certain 
green-eyed  fairy,  he  came  at  last  to  tread  a  shuttered,  blank, 
and  echoing  thoroughfare,  dark  and  unpeopled.  And,  sud 
denly,  this  way  came  to  an  end  (as  many  streets  do  in  the 
Spanish-built,  archaic  town  of  San  Antone),  butting  its  head 
against  an  imminent,  high,  brick  wall.  No  —  the  street  still 
lived!  To  the  right  and  to  the  left  it  breathed  through  slen 
der  tubes  of  exit  —  narrow,  somnolent  ravines,  cobble  paved 
and  unlighted.  Accommodating  a  rise  in  the  street  to  the 
right  was  reared  a  phantam  flight  of  five  luminous  steps  of 
limestone,  flanked  by  a  wall  of  the  same  height  and  of  the 
same  material. 

Upon  one  of  these  steps  Tansey  seated  himself  and  be 
thought  him  of  his  love,  and  how  she  might  never  know  she 
was  his  love.  And  of  Mother  Peek,  fat,  vigilant  and  kind; 


200  Roads  of  Destiny 

not  unpleased,  Tansey  thought,  that  he  and  Katie  should  play 
cribbage  in  the  parlour  together.  For  the  Cut-rate  had  not 
cut  his  salary,  which,  sordily  speaking,  ranked  him  star 
boarder  at  the  Peeks'.  And  he  thought  of  Captain  Peek, 
Katie's  father,  a  man  he  dreaded  and  abhorred;  a  genteel 
loafer  and  spendthrift,  battening  upon  the  labour  of  his 
women- folk;  a  very  queer  fish,  and,  according  to  repute,  not 
of  the  freshest. 

The  night  had  turned  chill  and  foggy.  The  heart  of  the 
town,  with  its  noises,  was  left  behind.  Reflected  from  the 
high  vapours,  its  distant  lights  were  manifest  in  quivering, 
cone-shaped  streamers,  in  questionable  blushes  of  unnamed 
colours,  in  unstable,  ghostly  waves  of  far,  electric  flashes. 
Now  that  the  darkness  was  become  more  friendly,  the  wall 
against  which  the  street  splintered  developed  a  stone  coping 
topped  with  an  armature  of  spikes.  Beyond  it  loomed  what 
appeared  to  be  the  acute  angles  of  mountain  peaks,  pierced 
here  and  there  by  little  lambent  parallelograms.  Considering 
this  vista,  Tansey  at  length  persuaded  himself  that  the  seem 
ing  mountains  were,  in  fact,  the  convent  of  Santa  Mercedes, 
with  which  ancient  and  bulky  pile  he  was  better  familiar 
from  different  coigns  of  view.  A  pleasant  noise  of  singing 
in  his  ears  reenforced  his  opinion.  High,  sweet,  holy  carol 
ling,  far  and  harmonious  and  uprising,  as  of  sanctified  nuns 
at  their  responses.  At  what  hour  did  the  Sisters  sing?  He 
tried  to  think  —  was  it  six,  eight,  twelve  ?  Tansey  leaned 
his  back  against  the  limestone  wall  and  wondered.  Strange 
things  followed.  The  air  was  full  of  white,  fluttering  pigeons 
that  circled  about,  and  settled  upon  the  convent  wall.  The 
wall  blossomed  with  a  quantity  of  shining  green  eyes  that 
blinked  and  peered  at  him  from  the  solid  masonry.  A  pink, 
classic  nymph  came  from  an  excavation  in  the  cavernous  road 
and  danced,  barefoot  and  airy,  upon  the  ragged  flints.  The 
sky  was  traversed  by  a  company  of  beribboned  cats,  marching 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  201 

in  stupendous,  aerial  procession.  The  noise  of  singing  grew 
louder;  an  illumination  of  unseasonable  fireflies  danced  past, 
and  strange  whispers  came  out  of  the  dark  without  meaning 
or  excuse. 

Without  amazement  Tansey  took  note  of  these  phenomena. 
He  was  on  some  new  plane  of  understanding,  though  his  mind 
seemed  to  him  clear  and,  indeed,  happily  tranquil. 

A  desire  for  movement  and  exploration  seized  him:  he  rose 
and  turned  into  the  black  gash  of  street  to  his  right.  For  a 
time  the  high  wall  formed  one  of  its  boundaries;  but  further 
on,  two  rows  of  black-windowed  houses  closed  it  in. 

Here  was  the  city's  quarter  once  given  over  to  the  Spaniard. 
Here  were  still  his  forbidding  abodes  of  concrete  and  adobe, 
standing  cold  and  indomitable  against  the  century.  From 
the  murky  fissure,  the  eye  saw,  flung  against  the  sky,  the  tan 
gled  filigree  of  his  Moorish  balconies.  Through  stone  arch 
ways  breaths  of  dead,  vault-chilled  air  coughed  upon  him;  his 
feet  struck  jingling  iron  rings  in  staples  stone-buried  for  half 
a  cycle.  Along  these  paltry  avenues  had  swaggered  the  ar 
rogant  Don,  had  caracoled  and  serenaded  and  blustered  while 
the  tomahawk  and  the  pioneer's  rifle  were  already  uplifted  to 
expel  him  from  a  continent.  And  Tansey,  stumbling  through 
this  old-world  dust,  looked  up,  dark  as  it  was,  and  saw  Anda- 
lusian  beauties  glimmering  on  the  balconies.  Some  of  them 
were  laughing  and  listening  to  the  goblin  music  that  still 
followed;  others  harked  fearfully  through  the  night,  trying  to 
catch  the  hoof  beats  of  caballeros  whose  last  echoes  from 
those  stones  had  died  away  a  century  ago.  Those  women  were 
silent,  but  Tansey  heard  the  jangle  of  horseless  bridle-bits, 
the  whirr  of  riderless  rowels,  and,  now  and  then,  a  muttered 
malediction  in  a  foreign  tongue.  But  he  was  not  frightened. 
Shadows,  nor  shadows  of  sounds  could  daunt  him.  Afraid? 
No.  Afraid  of  Mother  Peek?  Afraid  to  face  the  girl  of 
his  heart?  Afraid  of  tipsy  Captain  Peek?  Nay!  nor  of 


202  Roads  of  Destiny 

these  apparitions,  nor  of  that  spectral  singing  that  always 
pursued  him.  Singing!  He  would  show  them!  He  lifted 
up  a  strong  and  untuneful  voice: 

"When  you  hear  them  bells  go  tingalingling," 

serving  notice  upon  those  mysterious  agencies  that  if  it  should 
come  to  a  face-to-face  encounter 

'There'll  be  a  hot  time 
In  the  old  town 
To-night !" 

How  long  Tansey  consumed  in  treading  this  haunted  byway 
was  not  clear  to  him,  but  in  time  he  emerged  into  a  more 
commodious  avenue.  When  within  a  few  yards  of  the  corner 
he  perceived,  through  a  window,  that  a  small  confectionery 
of  mean  appearance  was  set  in  the  angle.  His  same  glance 
that  estimated  its  meagre  equipment,  its  cheap  soda-water 
fountain  and  stock  of  tobacco  and  sweets,  took  cognizance  of 
Captain  Peek  within  lighting  a  cigar  at  a  swinging  gaslight. 

As  Tansey  rounded  the  corner  Captain  Peek  came  out,  and 
they  met  vis-a-vis.  An  exultant  joy  filled  Tansey  when  he 
found  himself  sustaining  the  encounter  with  implicit  courage. 
Peek,  indeed!  He  raised  his  hand,  and  snapped  his  fingers 
loudly. 

It  wrs  Peek  himself  who  quailed  guiltily  before  the  valiant 
nien  of  the  drug  clerk.  Sharp  surprise  and  a  palp-VMe  fear 
bourgeoned  upon  the  Captain's  face.  And,  verily,  that  face 
was  one  to  rather  call  up  such  expressions  upon  the  faces  of 
others.  The  face  of  a  libidinous  heathen  idol,  small  eyed, 
with  carven  folds  in  the  heavy  jowls,  and  a  consuming,  pagan 
license  in  its  expression.  In  the  gutter  just  beyond  the  store 
Tansey  saw  a  closed  carriage  standing  with  its  back  toward 
him  and  a  motionless  driver  perched  in  his  place. 

"Why,  it's  Tansey!"  exclaimed  Captain  Peck.  "How 
are  you,  Tansey?  H-have  a  cigar,  Tansey ?" 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  203 

"Why,  it's  Peek !"  cried  Tansey,  jubilant  at  his  own  temerity. 
"What  deviltry  are  you  up  to  now,  Peek?  Back  streets  and  a 
closed  carriage!  Fie!  Peek!" 

"There's  no  one  in  the  carriage,"  said  the  Captain,  smoothly. 

"Everybody  out  of  it  is  in  luck/'  continued  Tansey,  aggres 
sively.  "I'd  love  for  you  to  know,  Peek,  that  I'm  not  stuck  on 
you.  You're  a  bottle-nosed  scoundrel." 

"Why,  the  little  rat's  drunk!"  cried  the  Captain,  joyfully; 
"only  drunk,  and  I  thought  he  was  on !  Go  home,  Tansey,  and 
quit  bothering  grown  persons  on  the  street." 

But  just  then  a  white-clad  figure  sprang  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  a  shrill  voice  —  Katie's  voice  —  sliced  the  air:  "Sam? 
Sam !  —  help  me,  Sam !" 

Tansey  sprang  toward  her,  but  Captain  Peek  interposed  his 
bulky  form.  Wonder  of  onders !  the  whilom  spiritless  youth 
struck  out  with  his  right,  and  the  hulking  Captain  went  over  in 
a  swearing  heap.  Tansey  flew  to  Katie,  and  took  her  in  his 
arms  like  a  conquering  k-iight.  She  raised  her  face,  and  he 
kicsed  her  —  violets !  electricity !  caramels !  champagne !  Here 
was  t"ie  attainment  of  a  dream  that  brought  no  disenchant 
ment. 

"Oh,  Sam,"  cried  Katie,  when  she  could,  "I  knew  you  would 
come  to  rescue  me.  What  do  you  suppose  the  mean  things  were 
going  to  do  with  me?" 

"Have  your  picture  taken,"  said  Tansey,  wondering  at  the 
foolishness  of  his  remark. 

"No,  they  were  going  to  eat  me.  I  heard  them  talking  about 
it." 

"Eat  you !"  said  Tansey,  after  pondering  a  moment.  "That 
can't  be;  there's  no  plates." 

But  a  sudden  noise  warned  him  to  turn.  Down  upon  him 
were  bearing  the  Captain  and  a  monstrous  long-bearded  dwarf 
in  a  spangled  cloak  and  red  trunk-hose.  The  dwarf  leaped 
twenty  feet  and  clutched  him.  The  Captain  seized  Katie  and 


204  Roads  of  Destiny 

hurled  her,  shrieking,  back  into  the  carriage,  himself  followed, 
and  the  vehicle  dashed  away.  The  dwarf  lifted  Tansey  high 
above  his  head  and  ran  with  him  into  the  store.  Holding  him 
with  one  hand,  he  raised  the  lid  of  an  enormous  chest  half 
filled  with  cakes  of  ice,  flung  Tansey  inside,  and  closed  down 
the  cover. 

The  force  of  the  fall  must  have  been  great,  for  Tansey 
lost  consciousness.  When  his  faculties  revived  his  first  sensa 
tion  was  one  of  severe  cold  along  his  back  and  limbs.  Open 
ing  his  eyes,  he  found  himself  to  be  seated  upon  the  limestone 
steps  still  facing  the  wall  and  convent  of  Santa  Mercedes. 
His  first  thought  was  of  the  ecstatic  kiss  from  Katie.  The 
outrageous  villainy  of  Captain  Peek,  the  unnatural  mystery 
of  the  situation,  his  preposterous  conflict  with  the  improbable 
dwarf  —  these  things  roused  and  angered  him,  but  left  no 
impression  of  the  unreal. 

"I'll  go  back  there  to-morrow,"  he  grumbled  aloud,  "and 
knock  the  head  off  that  comic-opera  squab.  Running  out 
and  picking  up  perfect  strangers,  and  shoving  them  into  cold 
storage !" 

But  the  kiss  remained  uppermost  in  his  mind.  "I  might 
have  done  that  long  ago,"  he  mused.  "She  liked  it,  too. 
She  called  me  'Sam'  four  times.  I'll  not  go  up  that  street 
again.  Too  much  scrapping.  Guess  I'll  move  down  the  other 
way.  Wonder  what  she  meant  by  saying  they  were  going 
to  eat  her !" 

Tansey  began  to  feel  sleepy,  but  after  a  while  he  decided 
to  move  along  again.  This  time  he  ventured  into  the  street 
to  his  left.  It  ran  level  for  a  distance,  and  then  dipped 
gently  downward,  opening  into  a  vast,  dim,  barren  space  — 
the  old  Military  Plaza.  To  his  left,  some  hundred  yards 
distant,  he  saw  a  cluster  of  flickering  lights  along  the  Plaza's 
Jborder.  He  knew  the  locality  at  once. 

Huddled  within  narrow  confines  were  the  remnants  of  the 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  205 

once-famous  purveyors  of  the  celebrated  Mexican  national 
cookery.  A  few  years  before,  their  nightly  encampments 
upon  the  historic  Alamo  Plaza,  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  had 
been  a  carnival,  a  saturnalia  that  was  renowned  throughout 
the  land.  Then  the  caterers  numbered  hundreds;  the  patrons 
thousands.  Drawn  by  the  coquettish  senoritas,  the  music  of 
the  weird  Spanish  minstrels,  and  the  strange  piquant  Mexi 
can  dishes  served  at  a  hundred  competing  tables,  crowds 
thronged  the  Alamo  Plaza  all  night.  Travellers,  rancheros, 
family  parties,  gay  gasconading  rounders,  sightseers  and 
prowlers  of  polyglot,  owlish  San  Antone  mingled  there  at 
the  centre  of  the  city's  fun  and  frolic.  The  popping  of  corks, 
pistols,  and  questions ;  the  glitter  of  eyes,  j  ewels  and  daggers ; 
the  ring  of  laughter  and  coin  —  these  were  the  order  of  the 
night. 

But  now  no  longer.  To  some  half-dozen  tents,  fires,  and 
tables  had  dwindled  the  picturesque  festival,  and  these  had 
been  relegated  to  an  ancient  disused  plaza. 

Often  had  Tansey  strolled  down  to  these  stands  at  night 
to  partake  of  the  delectable  chili-con-carne,  a  dish  evolved  by 
the  genius  of  Mexico,  composed  of  delicate  meats  minced 
with  aromatic  herbs  and  the  poignant  chili  Colorado  —  a  com 
pound  full  of  singular  savour  and  a  fiery  zest  delightful  to 
the  Southron's  palate. 

The  titillating  odour  of  this  concoction  came  now,  on  the 
breeze,  to  the  nostrils  of  Tansey,  awakening  in  him  hunger 
for  it.  As  he  turned  in  that  direction  he  saw  a  carriage  dash 
up  to  the  Mexicans'  tents  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  Plaza.  Some 
figures  moved  back  and  forward  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the 
lanterns,  and  then  the  carriage  was  driven  swiftly  away. 

Tansey  approached,  and  sat  at  one  of  the  tables  covered 
with  gaudy  oil-cloth.  Traffic  was  dull  at  the  moment.  A 
few  half-grown  boys  noisily  fared  at  another  table;  the  Mex 
icans  hung  listless  and  phlegmatic  about  their  wares.  And 


206  Roads  of  Destiny 

it  was  still.  The  night  hum  of  the  city  crowded  to  the  wall 
of  dark  buildings  surrounding  the  Plaza,  and  subsided  to  an 
indefinite  buzz  through  which  sharply  perforated  the  crackle 
of  the  languid  fires  and  the  rattle  of  fork  and  spoon.  A 
sedative  wind  blew  from  the  southeast.  The  starless  firma 
ment  pressed  down  upon  the  earth  like  a  leaden  cover. 

In  all  that  quiet  Tansey  turned  his  head  suddenly,  and 
saw,  without  disquietude,  a  troop  of  spectral  horsemen  deploy 
into  the  Plaza  and  charge  a  luminous  line  of  infantry  that 
advanced  to  sustain  the  shock.  He  saw  the  fierce  flame  of 
eannon  and  small  arms,  but  heard  no  sound.  The  careless 
Victuallers  lounged  vacantly,  not  deigning  to  view  the  con 
flict.  Tansey  mildly  wondered  to  what  nations  these  mute 
combatants  might  belong;  turned  his  back  to  them  and  or 
dered  his  chili  and  coffee  from  the  Mexican  woman  who  ad 
vanced  to  serve  him.  This  woman  was  old  and  careworn; 
her  face  was  lined  like  the  rind  of  a  cantaloupe.  She  fetched 
the  viands  from  a  vessel  set  by  the  smouldering  fire,  and  then 
retired  to  a  tent,  dark  within,  that  stood  near  by. 

Presently  Tansey  heard  a  turmoil  in  the  tent;  a  wailing, 
broken-hearted  pleading  in  the  harmonious  Spanish  tongue, 
and  then  two  figures  tumbled  out  into  the  light  of  the  lan 
terns.  One  was  the  old  woman;  the  other  was  a  man  clothed 
with  a  sumptuous  and  flashing  splendour.  The  woman  seemed 
to  clutch  and  beseech  from  him  something  against  his  will. 
The  man  broke  from  her  and  struck  her  brutally  back  into 
the  tent,  where  she  lay,  whimpering  and  invisible.  Observing 
Tansey,  he  walked  rapidly  to  the  table  where  he  sat.  Tansey 
recognized  him  to  be  Ramon  Torres,  a  Mexican,  the  proprietor 
of  the  stand  he  was  patronizing. 

Torres  was  a  handsome,  nearly  full-blooded  descendant  of 
the  Spanish,  seemingly  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  of  a 
haughty,  but  extremely  courteous  demeanour.  To-night  he 
Was  dressed  with  signal  manificence.  His  costume  was  that 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  207 

of  a  triumphant  matador,  made  of  purple  velvet  almost  hidden 
by  jeweled  emhroidery.  Diamonds  of  enormous  size  flashed 
upon  his  garb  and  his  hands.  He  reached  for  a  chair  and, 
seating  himself  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  began  to 
roll  a  finical  cigarette. 

"Ah,  Meester  Tansee,"  he  said,  with  a  sultry  fire  in  his 
silky,  black  eye,  "I  give  myself  pleasure  to  see  you  this  even 
ing.  Meester  T;  nsee,  you  have  many  times  come  to  eat  at  my 
table.  I  theenk  you  a  safe  man  —  a  verree  good  friend.  How 
much  would  it  please  you  to  leeve  forever?" 

"Not  come  back  any  more?"  inquired  Tansey. 

"No;  not  leave  —  leeve;  the  not-to-die." 

"I  would  call  that,"  said  Tansey,  "a  snap." 

Torres  leaned  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  swallowed  a  mouth 
ful  of  smoke,  and  spake  —  each  word  being  projected  in  a 
little  puff  of  gray. 

"How  old  do  you  theenk  I  am,  Meester  Tansee?" 

"Oh,  twenty-eight  or  thirty." 

"Thees  day,"  said  the  Mexican,  "ees  my  birthday.  I  am 
four  hundred  and  three  years  of  old  to-day." 

"Another  proof,"  said  Tansey,  airily,  "of  the  healthfulness 
of  our  climate." 

"Eet  is  not  the  air.  I  am  to  relate  to  you  a  secret  of  verree 
fine  value.  Listen  me,  Meester  Tansee.  At  the  age  of  twent- 
ty-three  I  arrive  in  Mexico  from  Spain.  When?  In  the 
yc  .r  fifteen  hundred  nineteen,  with  the  soldados  of  Hernando 
Cortez.  I  come  to  thees  country  seventeen  fifteen.  I  saw 
your  Alamo  reduced.  It  was  like  yesterday  to  me.  Three 
hundred  ninety-six  year  ago  I  learn  the  secret  always  to 
leeve.  Look  at  these  clothes  I  wear  —  at  these  diamantes. 
Do  you  theenk  I  buy  them  with  the  money  I  make  with  selling 
the  cliiU-con-carne,  Meester  Tansee  ?" 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Tansey,  promptly.  Torres 
laughed  loudly. 


208  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Valgame  Dios!  but  I  do.  But  it  not  the  kind  you  eating 
now.  I  make  a  deeferent  kind,  the  eating  of  which  makes 
men  to  always  leeve.  What  do  you  think!  One  thousand 
people  I  supply  —  dies  pesos  each  one  pays  me  the  month. 
You  see!  ten  thousand  pesos  everee  month!  Que  diable!  how 
not  I  wear  the  fine  ropa!  You  see  that  old  woman  try  to 
hold  me  back  a  little  while  ago?  That  ees  my  wife.  When 
I  marry  her  she  is  young  —  seventeen  year- —  bonita.  Like 
the  rest  she  ees  become  old  and  —  what  you  say !  —  tough  ? 
I  am  the  same  —  young  all  the  time.  To-night  I  resolve  to 
dress  myself  and  find  another  wife  befitting  my  age.  This 
old  woman  try  to  scr-r-ratch  my  face.  Ha!  ha!  Meester 
Tansee  —  same  way  they  do  ent re  los  Americanos." 

"And  this  health-food  you  spoke  of?"  said  Tansey. 

"Hear  me/'  said  Torres,  leaning  over  the  table  until  he 
lay  flat  upon  it;  "eet  is  the  chili-con-carne  made  not  from  the 
beef  or  the  chicken,  but  from  the  flesh  of  the  senorita  — 
young  and  tender.  That  ees  the  secret.  Everee  month  you 
must  eat  of  it,  having  care  to  do  so  before  the  moon  is  full, 
and  you  will  not  die  any  times.  See  how  I  trust  you,  friend 
Tansee !  To-night  I  have  bought  one  young  ladee  —  verree 
pretty  —  so  finaf  gorda,  blandita!  To-morrow  the  chili  will 
be  ready.  Ahora  si!  One  thousand  dollars  I  pay  for  thees 
young  ladee.  From  an  Americano  I  have  bought  —  a  verree 
tip-top  man  —  el  Capitan  Peek  —  que  es,  Senor?" 

For  Tansey  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  upsetting  the  chair. 
The  words  of  Katie  reverberated  in  his  ears :  "They're  going 
to  eat  me,  Sam."  This,  then,  was  the  monstrous  fate  to  which 
she  had  been  delivered  by  her  unnatural  parent.  The  car 
riage  he  had  seen  drive  up  from  the  Plaza  was  Captain  Peek's. 
Where  was  Katie  ?  Perhaps  already  — 

Before  he  could  decide  what  to  do  a  loud  scream  came  from 
the  tent.  The  old  Mexican  woman  ran  out,  a  flashing  knife 
in  her  hand.  "I  have  released  her,"  she  cried.  "You  shall 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  209 


kill  no  more.     They  will  hang  you  —  ingrato  — 

Torres,  with  a  hissing  exclamation,  sprang  at  her. 

"Ramoncito  !"  she  shrieked;  "once  you  loved  me." 

The  Mexican's  arm  raised  and  descended.  "You  are  old,"" 
he  cried;  and  she  fell  and  lay  motionless. 

Another  scream;  the  flaps  of  the  tent  were  flung  aside,  and! 
there  stood  Katie,  white  with  fear,  her  wrists  still  bound  with 
a  cruel  cord. 

"Sam!"  she  cried,  "save  me  again!" 

Tansey  rounded  the  table,  and  flung  himself,  with  superb 
nerve,  upon  the  Mexican.  Just  then  a  clangour  began;  the 
clocks  of  the  city  were  tolling  the  midnight  hour.  Tansey 
clutched  at  Torres,  and,  for  a  moment,  felt  in  his  grasp 
the  crunch  of  velvet  and  the  cold  facets  of  the  glittering 
gems.  The  next  instant,  the  bedecked  caballero  turned  in  his 
hands  to  a  shrunken,  leather-visaged,  white-bearded,  old,  old, 
screaming  mummy,  sandalled,  ragged,  and  four  hundred  and 
three.  The  Mexican  woman  was  crawling  to  her  feet,  and 
laughing.  She  shook  her  brown  hand  in  the  face  of  the  whin 
ing  vie  jo. 

"Go,  now,"  she  cried,  "and  seek  your  senorita.  It  was 
I,  Ramoncito,  who  brought  you  to  this.  Within  each  moon 
you  eat  of  the  life-giving  chili.  It  was  I  that  kept  the  wrong 
time  for  you.  You  should  have  eaten  yesterday  instead  of 
to-morrow.  It  is  too  late.  Off  with  you,  hobre!  You  are 
too  old  for  me  !" 

"This,"  decided  Tansey,  releasing  his  hold  of  the  gray- 
beard,  "is  a  private  family  matter  concerning  age,  and  no 
business  of  mine." 

With  one  of  the  table  knives  he  hastened  to  saw  asunder 
the  fetters  of  the  fair  captive;  and  then,  for  the  second  time 
that  night  he  kissed  Katie  Peek  —  tasted  again  the  sweetness, 
the  wonder,  the  thrill  of  it,  attained  once  more  the  maximum 
of  his  incessant  dreams. 


210  Roads  of  Destiny 

The  next  instant  an  icy  blade  was  driven  deep  between  his 
shoulders;  he  felt  his  blood  slowly  congeal;  heard  the  senile 
cackle  of  the  perennial  Spaniard;  saw  the  Plaza  rise  and  reel 
till  the  zenith  crashed  into  the  horizon  —  and  knew  no  more. 

When  Tansey  opened  his  eyes  again  he  was  sitting  upon 
those  self-same  steps  gazing  upon  the  dark  bulk  of  the  sleep 
ing  convent.  In  the  middle  of  his  back  was  still  the  acute, 
chilling  pain.  How  had  he  been  conveyed  back  there  again? 
He  got  stiffly  to  his  feet  and  stretched  his  cramped  limbs. 
Supporting  himself  against  the  stonework  he  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  extravagant  adventures  that  had  befallen  him  each 
time  he  had  strayed  from  the  steps  that  night.  In  reviewing 
them  certain  features  strained  his  credulity.  Had  he  really 
met  Captain  Peek  or  Katie  or  the  unparalleled  Mexican  in  his 
wanderings  —  had  he  really  encountered  them  under  com 
monplace  conditions  and  his  over-stimulated  brain  had  sup 
plied  the  incongruities?  However  that  might  be,  a  sudden, 
elating  thought  caused  him  an  intense  joy.  Nearly  all  of  us 
have,  at  some  point  in  our  lives  —  either  to  excuse  our  own 
stupidity  or  placate  our  consciences  —  promulgated  some 
theory  of  fatalism.  We  have  set  up  an  intelligent  Fate  that 
works  by  codes  and  signals.  Tansey  had  done  likewise;  and 
now  he  read,  through  the  night's  incidents,  the  finger-prints 
of  destiny.  Each  excursion  that  he  had  made  had  led  to  the 
one  paramount  finale  —  to  Katie  and  that  kiss,  which  survived 
and  grew  strong  and  intoxicating  in  his  memory.  Clearly, 
Pate  was  holding  up  to  him  the  mirror  that  night,  calling 
him  to  observe  what  awaited  him  at  the  end  of  whichever 
road  he  might  take.  He  immediately  turned.,  and  hurried 
homeward. 

Clothed  in  an  elaborate,  pale  blue  wrapper,  cut  to  fit,  Miss 
Katie  Peek  reclined  in  an  armchair  before  a  waning  fire  in 
her  room.  Her  little,  bare  feet  were  thrust  into  house-shoes 


The  Enchanted  Kiss  211 

rimmed  with  swan's  down.  By  the  light  of  a  small  lamp 
she  was  attacking  the  society  news  of  the  latest  Sunday  paper. 
Some  happy  substance,  seemingly  indestructible,  was  being 
rhythmically  crushed  between  her  small  white  teeth.  Miss 
Katie  read  of  functions  and  furbelows,  but  she  kept  a  vigilant 
ear  for  outside  sounds  and  a  frequent  eye  upon  the  clock 
over  the  mantel.  At  every  footstep  upon  the  asphalt  side 
walk  her  smooth,  round  chin  would  cease  for  a  moment  its 
regular  rise  and  fall,  and  a  frown  of  listening  would  pucker 
her  pretty  brows. 

At  last  she  heard  the  latch  of  the  iron  gate  click.  She 
sprang  up,  tripped  swiftly  to  the  mirror,  where  she  made 
a  few  of  those  feminine,  flickering  passes  at  her  front  hair 
and  throat  which  are  warranted  to  hypnotize  the  approaching 
guest. 

The  door-bell  rang.  Miss  Katie,  in  her  haste,  turned  the 
blaze  of  the  lamp  lower  instead  of  higher,  and  hastened  noise 
lessly  down  stairs  into  the  hall.  She  turned  the  key,  the 
door  opened,  and  Mr.  Tansey  side-stepped  in. 

"Why,  the  i-de-a !"  exclaimed  Miss  Katie,  "is  this  you, 
Mr.  Tansey?  It's  after  midnight.  Aren't  you  ashamed  to 
wake  me  up  at  such  an  hour  to  let  you  in?  You're  just 
awful!" 

"I  was  late,"  said  Tansey,  brilliantly. 

"I  should  think  you  were!  Ma  was  awfully  worried  about 
you.  When  you  weren't  in  by  ten,  that  hateful  Tom  McGill 
said  you  were  out  calling  on  another  —  said  you  were  out 
calling  on  some  young  lady.  I  just  despise  Mr.  McGill. 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  scold  you  any  more,  Mr.  Tansey,  if  i'. 
is  a  little  late  —  Oh !  I  turned  it  the  wrong  way !" 

Miss  Katie  gave  a  little  scream.  Absent-mindedly  she  had 
turned  the  blaze  of  the  lamp  entirely  out  instead  of  higher. 
It  was  very  dark. 

Tansey  heard  a  musical,  soft  giggle,  and  breathed  an  efi- 


212  Roads  of  Destiny 

trancing  odour  of  heliotrope.     A  groping  light  hand  touched 
his  arm. 

"How  awkward  I  was!  Can  you  find  your  way  —  Sam?' 
"I  —  I  think  I  have  a  match,  Miss  K-Katie." 
A  scratching  sound;  a  flame;  a  glow  of  light  held  at  arm's 
length  by  the  recreant  follower  of  Destiny  illuminating  a 
tableau  which  shall  end  jthe  ignominious  chronicle  —  a  maid 
with  unkissed,  curling,  contemptuous  lips  slowly  lifting  the 
lamp  chimney  and  allowing  the  wick  to  ignite;  then  waving  a 
scornful  and  abjuring  hand  toward  the  staircase  —  the  un 
happy  Tansey,  erstwhile  champion  in  the  prophetic  lists  of 
fortune,  ingloriously  ascending  to  his  just  and  certain  doom, 
while  (let  us  imagine)  half  within  the  wings  stands  the  im 
minent  figure  of  Fate  jerking  wildly  at  the  wrong  strings, 
and  mixing  things  up  in  her  usual  able  manner. 


XVI 
A  DEPARTMENTAL  CASE 

IN  Texas  you  may  travel  a  thousand  miles  in  a  straight 
line.  If  your  course  is  a  crooked  one,  it  is  likely  that  both 
the  distance  and  your  rate  of  speed  may  be  vastly  increased. 
Clouds  there  sail  serenely  against  the  wind.  The  whip-poor- 
will  delivers  its  disconsolate  cry  with  the  notes  exactly  re 
versed  from  those  of  his  Northern  brother.  Given  a  drought 
and  a  subsequently  lively  rain,  and  lo!  from  a  glazed  and 
stony  soil  will  spring  in  a  single  night  blossomed  lilies,  mir 
aculously  fair.  Tom  Green  County  was  once  the  standard 
of  measurement.  I  have  forgotten  how  many  New  Jerseys 
and  Rhode  Islands  it  was  that  could  have  been  stowed  away 
and  lost  in  its  chaparral.  But  the  legislative  axe  has  slashed 
Tom  Green  into  a  handful  of  counties  hardly  larger  than 
European  kingdoms.  The  legislature  convenes  at  Austin,  near 
the  centre  of  the  state;  and,  while  the  representative  from  the 
Rio  Grande  country  is  gathering  his  palm-leaf  fan  and  his 
linen  duster  to  set  out  for  the  capital,  the  Pan-handle  solon 
winds  his  muffler  above  his  well-buttoned  overcoat  and  kicks 
the  snow  from  his  well-greased  boots  ready  for  the  same  jour 
ney.  All  this  merely  to  hint  that  the  big  ex-republic  of  the 
Southwest  forms  a  sizable  star  on  the  flag,  and  to  prepare  for 
the  corollary  that  things  sometimes  happen  there  uncut  to 
pattern  and  unfettered  by  metes  and  bounds. 

The  Commissioner  of  Insurance,  Statistics,  and  History  of 
the  State  of  Texas  was  an  official  of  no  very  great  or  very 
small  importance.  The  past  tense  is  used,  for  now  he  is 

213 


214  Roads  of  Destiny 

Commissioner  of  Insurance  alone.  Statistics  and  history  are 
no  longer  proper  nouns  in  the  government  records. 

In  the  year  188-,  the  governor  appointed  Luke  Coonrod 
Standifer  to  be  the  head  of  this  department.  Standifer  was 
then  fifty-five  years  of  age,  and  a  Texan  to  the  core.  His 
father  had  been  one  of  the  state's  earliest  settlers  and  pioneers. 
Standifer  himself  had  served  the  commonwealth  as  Indian 
fighter,  soldier,  ranger,  and  legislator.  Much  learning  he  did 
riot  claim,  but  he  had  drank  pretty  deep  of  the  spring  of 
experience. 

If  other  grounds  were  less  abundant,  Texas  should  be  well 
up  in  the  lists  of  glory  as  the  grateful  republic.  For  both  as 
republic  and  state,  it  has  busily  heaped  honours  and  solid 
rewards  upon  its  sons  who  rescued  it  from  the  wilderness. 

Wherefore  and  therefore,  Luke  Coonrod  Standifer,  son  of 
Ezra  Standifer,  ex-Terry  ranger,  simon-pure  democrat,  and 
lucky  dweller  in  an  unrepresented  portion  of  the  politico-geo 
graphical  map,  was  appointed  Commissioner  of  Insurance, 
Statistics,  and  History. 

Standifer  accepted  the  honour  with  some  doubt  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  office  he  was  to  fill  and  his  capacity  for  filling 
it  —  but  he  accepted,  and  by  wire.  He  immediately  set  out 
from  the  little  country  town  where  he  maintained  (and  was 
scarcely  maintained  by)  a  somnolent  and  unfruitful  office  of 
surveying  and  map-drawing.  Before  departing,  he  had  looked 
up  under  the  I's,  S's  and  H's  in  the  "Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica"  what  information  and  preparation  toward  his  official 
duties  that  those  weighty  volumes  afforded. 

A  few  weeks  of  incumbency  diminished  the  new  commisv 
sioner's  awe  of  the  great  and  important  office  he  had  been 
called  upon  to  conduct.  An  increasing  familiarity  with  its 
workings  soon  restored  him  to  his  accustomed  placid  course  of 
life.  In  his  office  was  an  old,  spectacled  clerk  —  a  conse 
crated,  informed,  able  machine,  who  held  his  desk  regardless 


A  Departmental  Case  215 

of  changes  of  administrative  heads.  Old  Kauffman  instructed 
his  new  chief  gradually  in  the  knowledge  of  the  department 
without  seeming  to  do  so,  and  kept  the  wheels  revolving  with 
out  the  slip  of  a  cog. 

Indeed,  the  Department  of  Insurance,  Statistics,  and  His 
tory  carried  no  great  heft  of  the  burden  of  state.  Its  main 
work  was  the  regulating  of  the  business  done  in  the  state  by 
foreign  insurance  companies,  and  the  letter  of  the  law  was 
its  guide.  As  for  statistics  —  well,  you  wrote  letters  to 
county  officers,  and  scissored  other  people's  reports,  and  each 
year  you  got  out  a  report  of  your  own  about  the  corn  crop 
and  the  cotton  crop  and  pecans  and  pigs  and  black  and  white 
population,  and  a  great  many  columns  of  figures  headed 
"bushels"  and  "acres"  and  "square  miles,"  etc. —  and  there 
you  were.  History?  The  branch  was  purely  a  receptive  one. 
Old  ladies  interested  in  the  science  bothered  you  some  with 
long  reports  of  proceedings  of  their  historical  societies.  Some 
twenty  or  thirty  people  would  write  you  each  year  that  they 
had  secured  Sam  Houston's  pocket-knife  or  Santa  Ana's 
whisky-flask  or  Davy  Crockett's  rifle  —  all  absolutely  authen 
ticated  —  and  demanded  legislative  appropriation  to  purchase. 
Most  of  the  work  in  the  history  branch  went  into  pigeon-holes. 

One  sizzling  August  afternoon  the  commissioner  reclined  in 
his  office  chair,  with  his  feet  upon  the  long,  official  table  cov 
ered  with  green  billiard  cloth.  The  commissioner  was  smok 
ing  a  cigar,  and  dreamily  regarding  the  quivering  landscape 
framed  by  the  \\indow  that  looked  upon  the  treeless  capitol 
grounds.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  the  rough  and  ready 
life  he  had  led,  of  the  old  days  of  breathless  adventure  and 
movement,  of  the  comrades  who  now  trod  other  paths  or  had 
ceased  to  tread  any,  of  the  changes  civilization  and  peace 
had  brought,  and,  maybe,  complacently,  of  the  snug  and  com 
fortable  camp  pitched  for  him  under  the  dome  of  the  capitol 
of  the  state  that  had  not  forgotten  his  services. 


216  Roads  of  Destiny 

The  business  of  the  department  was  lax.  Insurance  was 
easy.  Statistics  were  not  in  demand.  History  was  dead. 
Old  Kauffman,  the  efficient  and  perpetual  clerk,  had  requested 
an  infrequent  half-holiday,  incited  to  the  unusual  dissipation 
by  the  joy  of  having  successfully  twisted  the  tail  of  a  Con 
necticut  insurance  company  that  was  trying  to  do  business 
contrary  to  the  edicts  of  the  great  Lone  Star  State. 

The  office  was  very  still.  A  few  subdued  noises  trickled  in 
through  the  open  door  from  the  other  departments  —  a  dull 
tinkling  crash  from  the  treasurer's  office  adjoining,  as  a  clerk 
tossed  a  bag  of  silver  to  the  floor  of  the  vault  —  the  vague, 
intermittent  clatter  of  a  dilatory  typewriter  —  a  dull  tapping 
from  the  state  geologist's  quarters  as  if  some  woodpecker  had 
flown  in  to  bore  for  his  prey  in  the  cool  of  the  massive  build 
ing  —  and  then  a  faint  rustle,  and  the  light  shuffling  of  the 
well-worn  shoes  along  the  hall,  the  sounds  ceasing  at  the 
door  toward  which  the  commissioner's  lethargic  back  was 
presented.  Following  this,  the  sound  of  a  gentle  voice  speak 
ing  words  unintelligible  to  the  commissioner's  somewhat  dor 
mant  comprehension,  but  giving  evidence  of  bewilderment  and 
hesitation. 

The  voice  was  feminine;  the  commissioner  was  of  the  race 
of  cavaliers  who  make  salaam  before  the  trail  of  a  skirt  with 
out  considering  the  quality  of  its  cloth. 

There  stood  in  the  door  a  faded  woman,  one  of  the  nu 
merous  sisterhood  of  the  unhappy.  She  was  dressed  all  in 
black  —  poverty's  perpetual  mourning  for  lost  joys.  Her 
face  had  the  contours  of  twenty  and  the  lines  of  forty.  She 
may  have  lived  that  intervening  score  of  years  in  a  twelve 
month.  There  was  about  her  yet  an  aurum  of  indignant, 
unappeased,  protesting  youth  that  shone  faintly  through  the 
premature  veil  of  unearned  decline. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  the  commissioner,  gain- 


A  Departmental  Case  217 

ing  his  feet  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  great  creaking  and 
sliding  of  his  chair. 

"Are  you  the  governor,  sir?"  asked  the  vision  of  melan 
choly. 

The  commissioner  hesitated  at  the  end  of  his  best  bow, 
with  his  hand  in  the  bosom  of  his  double-breasted  "frock." 
Truth  at  last  conquered. 

"Well,  no,  ma'am.  I  am  not  the  governor.  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  Commissioner  of  Insurance,  Statistics  and  His 
tory.  Is  there  anything,  ma'am,  I  can  do  for  you?  Won't 
you  have  a  chair,  ma'am  ?" 

The  lady  subsided  into  the  chair  handed  her,  probably  from 
purely  physical  reasons.  She  wielded  a  cheap  fan  —  last 
token  of  gentility  to  be  abandoned.  Her  clothing  seemed  to 
indicate  a  reduction  almost  to  extreme  poverty.  She  looked 
at  the  man  who  was  not  the  governor,  and  saw  kindliness 
and  simplicity  and  a  rugged,  unadorned  courtliness  emanating 
from  a  countenance  tanned  and  toughened  by  forty  years  of 
outdoor  life.  Also,  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  clear  and 
strong  and  blue.  Just  so  they  had  been  when  he  used  them 
to  skim  the  horizon  for  raiding  Kiowas  and  Sioux.  His  mouth 
was  as  set  and  firm  as  it  had  been  on  that  day  when  he  bearded 
the  old  Lion  Sam  Houston  himself,  and  defied  him  during 
that  season  when  secession  was  the  theme.  Now,  in  bearing 
and  dress,  Luke  Coonrod  Standifer  endeavoured  to  do  credit 
to  the  important  arts  and  sciences  of  Insurance,  Statistics, 
and  History.  He  had  abandoned  the  careless  dress  of  his 
country  home.  Now,  his  broad-brimmed  black  slouch  hat,  and 
his  long-tailed  "frock"  made  him  not  the  least  imposing  of 
the  official  family,  even  if  his  office  was  reckoned  to  stand  at 
the  tail  of  the  list. 

"You  wanted  to  see  the  governor,  ma'am?"  asked  the  com 
missioner,  with  a  deferential  manner  he  always  used  toward 
the  fair  sex. 


218  Roads  of  Destiny 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  the  lady,  hesitatingly.  "I  suppose 
so."  And  then,  suddenly  drawn  by  the  sympathetic  look  of 
the  other,  she  poured  forth  the  story  of  her  need. 

It  was  a  story  so  common  that  the  public  has  come  to  look 
at  its  monotony  instead  of  its  pity.  The  old  tale  of  an  un 
happy  married  life  —  made  so  by  a  brutal,  conscienceless  hus 
band,  a  robber,  a  spendthrift,  a  moral  coward  and  a  bully, 
who  failed  to  provide  even  the  means  of  the  barest  existence. 
Yes,  he  had  come  down  in  the  scale  so  low  as  to  strike  her. 
It  happened  only  the  day  before  —  there  was  the  bruise  on 
one  temple  —  she  had  offended  his  highness  by  asking  for 
a  little  money  to  live  on.  And  yet  she  must  needs,  woman 
like,  append  a  plea  for  her  tyrant  —  he  was  drinking;  he  had 
rarely  abused  her  thus  when  sober. 

"I  thought,"  mourned  this  pale  sister  of  sorrow,  "that  may 
be  the  state  might  be  willing  to  give  me  some  relief.  I've 
heard  of  such  things  being  done  for  the  families  of  old  settlers. 
I've  heard  tell  that  the  state  used  to  give  land  to  the  men  who 
fought  for  it  against  Mexico,  and  settled  up  the  country,  and 
helped  drive  out  the  Indians.  My  father  did  all  of  that,  and 
he  never  received  anything.  He  never  would  take  it.  I 
thought  the  governor  would  be  the  one  to  see,  and  that's  why  I 
came.  If  father  was  entitled  to  anything,  they  might  let  it 
come  to  me." 

"It's  possible,  ma'am,"  said  Standifer,  "that  such  might 
be  the  case.  But  'most  all  the  veterans  and  settlers  got  their 
land  certificates  issued,  and  located  long  ago.  Still,  we  can 
look  that  up  in  the  land  office,  and  be  sure.  Your  father's 
name,  now,  was  — " 

"Amos  Colvin,  sir." 

"Good  Lord !"  exclaimed  Standifer,  rising  and  unbutton 
ing  his  tight  coat,  excitedly.  "Are  you  Amos  Colvin's 
daughter?  Why,  ma'am,  Amos  Colvin  and  me  were  thicker 
than  two  boss  thieves  for  more  than  ten  years!  We  fought 


A  Departmental  Case  219 

Kiowas,  drove  cattle,  and  rangered  side  by  side  nearly  all 
over  Texas.  I  remember  seeing  you  once  before,  now.  You 
were  a  kid,  about  seven,  a-riding  a  little  yellow  pony  up  and 
down.  Amos  and  me  stopped  at  your  home  for  a  little  grub 
when  we  were  trailing  that  band  of  Mexican  cattle  thieves 
down  through  Karnes  and  Bee.  Great  tarantulas !  and  you're 
Amos  Colvin's  little  girl!  Did  you  ever  hear  your  father 
mention  Luke  Standifer  —  just  kind  of  casually  —  as  if  he'd 
met  me  once  or  twice?" 

A  little  pale  smile  flitted  across  the  lady's  white  face. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "that  I  don't  remember  hearing 
him  talk  about  much  else.  Every  day  there  was  some  story 
he  had  to  tell  about  what  he  and  you  had  done.  Mighty  near 
the  last  thing  I  heard  him  tell  was  about  the  time  when  the 
Indians  wounded  him,  and  you  crawled  out  to  him  through 
the  grass,  with  a  canteen  of  water,  while  they  — " 

"Yes,  yes  —  well  —  oh,  that  wasn't  anything,"  said  Standi 
fer,  "hemming"  loudly  and  buttoning  his  coat  again,  briskly. 
"And  now,  ma'am,  who  was  the  infernal  skunk  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  ma'am  —  who  was  the  gentleman  you  married?" 

"Benton  Sharp." 

The  commissioner  plumped  down  again  into  his  chair,  with 
a  groan.  This  gentle,  sad  little  woman,  in  the  rusty  black 
gown,  the  daughter  of  his  oldest  friend,  the  wife  of  Benton 
Sharp !  Benton  Sharp,  one  of  the  most  noted  "bad"  men  in 
that  part  of  the  state  —  a  man  who  had  been  a  cattle  thief, 
an  outlaw,  a  desperado,  and  was  now  a  gambler,  a  swaggering 
bully,  who  plied  his  trade  in  the  larger  frontier  towns,  relying 
upon  his  record  and  the  quickness  of  his  gun  play  to  maintain 
his  supremacy.  Seldom  did  any  one  take  the  risk  of  going 
"up  against"  Benton  Sharp.  Even  the  law  officers  were 
content  to  let  him  make  his  own  terms  of  peace.  Sharp  was 
a  ready  and  an  accurate  shot,  and  as  lucky  as  a  brand-new 
pespy  at  coming  clear  from  his  scrapes.  Standifer  wondered 


220  Roads  of  Destiny 

how  this  pillaging  eagle  ever  came  to  he  mated  with  Amos 
Colvin's  little  dove,  and  expressed  his  wonder. 

Mrs.  Sharp  sighed. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Standifer,  we  didn't  know  anything  about 
him,  and  he  can  be  very  pleasant  and  kind  when  he  wants  to. 
We  lived  down  in  the  little  town  of  Goliad.  Benton  came 
riding  down  that  way,  and  stopped  there  a  while.  I  reckon 
I  was  some  better  looking  then  than  I  am  now.  He  was  good 
to  me  for  a  whole  year  after  we  were  married.  He  insured 
his  life  for  me  for  five  thousand  dollars.  But  for  the  last 
six  months  he  has  done  everything  but  kill  me.  I  often  wish 
he  had  done  that,  too.  He  got  out  of  money  for  a  while,  and 
abused  me  shamefully  for  not  having  anything  he  could  spend. 
Then  father  died,  and  left  me  the  little  home  in  Goliad.  My 
husband  made  me  sell  that,  and  turned  me  out  into  the  world. 
I've  barely  been  able  to  live,  for  I'm  not  strong  enough  to 
work.  Lately,  I  heard  he  was  making  money  in  San  Antonio, 
so  I  went  there,  and  found  him,  and  asked  for  a  little  help. 
This,"  touching  the  livid  bruise  on  her  temple,  "is  what  he 
gave  me.  So  I  came  on  to  Austin  to  see  the  governor.  I 
once  heard  father  say  that  there  was  some  land,  or  a  pension, 
coming  to  him  from  the  state  that  he  never  would  ask  for." 

Luke  Standifer  rose  to  his  feet,  and  pushed  his  chair  back. 
He  looked  rather  perplexedly  around  the  big  office,  with  its 
handsome  furniture. 

"It's  a  long  trail  to  follow,"  he  said,  slowly,  "trying  to 
get  back  dues  from  the  government.  There's  red  tape  and 
lawyers  and  rulings  and  evidences  and  courts  to  keep  you 
waiting.  I'm  not  certain,"  continued  the  commissioner,  with 
a  profoundly  meditative  frown,  "whether  this  department 
that  I'm  the  boss  of  has  any  jurisdiction  or  not.  It's  only 
Insurance,  Statistics,  and  History,  ma'am,  and  it  don't  sound 
as  if  it  would  cover  the  case.  But  sometimes  a  saddle  blanket 


A  Departmental  Case  221 

can  be  made  to  stretch.  You  keep  your  seat,  just  for  a  few 
minutes,  ma'am,  till  I  step  into  the  next  room  and  see  about 
it." 

The  state  treasurer  was  seated  within  his  massive,  com 
plicated  railings,  reading  a  newspaper.  Business  for  the  day 
was  about  over.  The  clerks  lolled  at  their  desks,  awaiting 
the  closing  hour.  The  Commissioner  of  Insurance,  Statistics^ 
and  History  entered,  and  leaned  in  at  the  window. 

The  treasurer,  a  little,  brisk  old  man,  with  snow-white 
moustache  and  beard,  jumped  up  youthfully  and  came  forward 
to  greet  Standifer.  They  were  friends  of  old. 

"Uncle  Frank,"  said  the  commissioner,  using  the  familiar 
name  by  which  the  historic  treasurer  was  addressed  by  every 
Texan,  "how  much  money  have  you  got  on  hand?" 

The  treasurer  named  the  sum  of  the  last  balance  down  to 
the  odd  cents  —  something  more  than  a  million  dollars. 

The  commissioner  whistled  lowly,  and  his  eyes  grew  hope 
fully  bright. 

"You  know,  or  else  you've  heard  of,  Amos  Colvin,  Uncle 
Frank?" 

"Knew  him  well,"  said  the  treasurer,  promptly.  "A  good 
man.  A  valuable  citizen.  One  of  the  first  settlers  in  the 
Southwest." 

"His  daughter,"  said  Standifer,  "is  sitting  in  my  office. 
She's  penniless.  She's  married  to  Benton  Sharp,  a  coyote 
and  a  murderer.  He's  reduced  her  to  want,  and  broken  her 
heart.  Her  father  helped  build  up  this  state,  and  it's  the 
state's  turn  to  help  his  child.  A  couple  of  thousand  dollars 
will  buy  back  her  home  and  let  her  live  in  peace.  The  State 
of  Texas  can't  afford  to  refuse  it.  Give  me  the  money,  Uncle 
Frank,  and  I'll  give  it  to  her  right  away.  We'll  fix  up  the 
red-tape  business  afterward." 

The  treasurer  looked  a  little  bewildered. 


222  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Why,  Standifer/'  he  said,  "you  know  I  can't  pay  a  cent 
out  of  the  treasury  without  a  warrant  from  the  comptroller. 
I  can't  disburse  a  dollar  without  a  voucher  to  show  for  it." 

The  commissioner  betrayed  a  slight  impatience. 

"I'll  give  you  a  voucher/'  he  declared.  "What's  this  job 
they've  given  me  for?  Am  I  just  a  knot  on  a  mesquite  stump? 
Can't  my  office  stand  for  it?  Charge  it  up  to  Insurance  and 
the  other  two  sideshows.  Don't  Statistics  show  that  Amos 
Colvin  came  to  this  state  when  it  was  in  the  hands  of  Greasers 
and  rattlesnakes  and  Comanches,  and  fought  day  and  night 
to  make  a  white  man's  country  of  it?  Don't  they  show  that 
Amos  Colvin's  daughter  is  brought  to  ruin  by  a  villain  who's 
trying  to  pull  down  what  you  and  I  and  old  Texans  shed  our 
blood  to  build  up?  Don't  History  show  that  the  Lone  Star 
State  never  yet  failed  to  grant  relief  to  the  suffering  and 
oppressed  children  of  the  men  who  made  her  the  grandest 
commonwealth  in  the  Union?  If  Statistics  and  History  don't 
bear  out  the  claim  of  Amos  Colvin's  child  I'll  ask  the  next 
legislature  to  abolish  my  office.  Come,  now,  Uncle  Frank,  let 
her  have  the  money.  I'll  sign  the  papers  officially,  if  you 
say  so;  and  then  if  the  governor  or  the  comptroller  or  the 
janitor  or  anybody  else  makes  a  kick,  by  the  Lord  I'll  refer 
the  matter  to  the  people,  and  see  if  they  won't  indorse  the 
act." 

The  treasurer  looked  sympathetic  but  shocked.  The  com 
missioner's  voice  had  grown  louder  as  he  rounded  off  the 
sentences  that,  however  praiseworthy  they  might  be  in  senti 
ment,  reflected  somewhat  upon  the  capacity  of  the  head  of  a 
more  or  less  important  department  of  state.  The  clerks  were 
beginning  ta  listen. 

"Now,  Standifer,"  said  the  treasurer,  soothingly,  "you 
know  I'd  like  to  help  in  this  matter,  but  stop  and  think  a 
moment,  please.  Every  cent  in  the  treasury  is  expended  only 
by  appropriation  made  by  the  legislature,  and  drawn  out  by 


A  Departmental  Case  228 

checks  issued  by  the  comptroller.  I  can't  control  the  use  of 
a  cent  of  it.  Neither  can  you.  Your  department  isn't  dis- 
bursive  —  it  isn't  even  administrative  —  it's  purely  clerical. 
The  only  way  for  the  lady  to  obtain  relief  is  to  petition  the 
legislature,  and — " 

"To  the  devil  with  the  legislature,"  said  Standifer,  turn 
ing  away. 

The  treasurer  called  him  back. 

"I'd  be  glad,  Standifer,  to  contribute  a  hundred  dollars 
personally  toward  the  immediate  expenses  of  Colvin's  daugh 
ter."  He  reached  for  his  pocketbook. 

"Never  mind,  Uncle  Frank,"  said  the  commissioner,  in  a 
softer  tone.  "There's  no  need  of  that.  She  hasn't  asked 
for  anything  of  that  sort  yet.  Besides,  her  case  is  in  my 
hands.  I  see  now  what  a  little,  rag-tag,  bob-tail,  gotch-eared 
department  I've  been  put  in  charge  of.  It  seems  to  be  about 
as  important  as  an  almanac  or  a  hotel  register.  But  while 
I'm  running  it,  it  won't  turn  away  any  daughters  of  Amos 
Colvin  without  stretching  its  jurisdiction  to  cover,  if  possible. 
You  want  to  keep  your  eye  on  the  Department  of  Insurance, 
Statistics,  and  History." 

The  commissioner  returned  to  his  office,  looking  thoughtful. 
He  opened  and  closed  an  inkstand  on  his  desk  many  times  with 
extreme  and  undue  attention  before  he  spoke.  "Why  don't 
you  get  a  divorce?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"I  haven't  the  money  to  pay  for  it,"  answered  the  lady. 

"Just  at  present,"  announced  the  commissioner,  in  a  formal 
tone,  "the  powers  of  my  department  appear  to  be  considerably 
string-halted.  Statistics  seem  to  be  overdrawn  at  the  bank, 
and  History  isn't  good  for  a  square  meal.  But  you've  come 
to  the  right  place,  ma'am.  The  department  will  see  you 
through.  Where  did  you  say  your  husband  is,  ma'am?" 

"He  was  in  San  Antonio  yesterday.  He  is  living  there 
BOW." 


224  Eoads  of  Destiny 

Suddenly  the  commissioner  abandoned  his  official  air.  H<5 
took  the  faded  little  woman's  hands  in  his,  and  spoke  in  the 
old  voice  he  used  on  the  trail  and  around  campfires. 

"Your  name's  Amanda,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  thought  so.  I've  heard  your  dad  say  it  often  enough. 
Well,  Amanda,  here's  your  father's  best  friend,  the  head  of  a 
big  office  in  the  state  government,  that's  going  to  help  you  out 
of  your  troubles.  And  here's  the  old  bushwhacker  and  cow- 
puncher  that  your  father  has  helped  out  of  scrapes  time  and 
time  again  wants  to  ask  you  a  question.  Amanda,  have  you 
got  money  enough  to  run  you  for  the  next  two  or  three  days?" 

Mrs.  Sharp's  white  face  flushed  the  least  bit. 

"Plenty,  sir  —  for  a  few  days." 

"All  right,  then,  ma'am.  Now  you  go  back  where  you  are 
stopping  here,  and  you  come  to  the  office  again  the  day  after 
to-morrow  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Very  likely  by 
that  time  there  will  be  something  definite  to  report  to  you." 
The  commissioner  hesitated,  and  looked  a  trifle  embarrassed. 
"You  said  your  husband  had  insured  his  life  for  $5,000. 
Do  you  know  whether  the  premiums  have  been  kept  paid  upon 
it  or  not?" 

"He  paid  for  a  whole  year  in  advance  about  five  months 
ago,"  said  Mrs.  Sharp.  "I  have  the  policy  and  receipts  in 
my  trunk." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  then,"  said  Standifer.  "It's  best  to 
look  after  things  of  that  sort.  Some  day  they  may  come  in 
handy." 

Mrs.  Sharp  departed,  and  soon  afterward  Luke  Standifer 
went  down  to  the  little  hotel  where  he  boarded  and  looked  up 
the  railroad  time-table  in  the  daily  paper.  Half  an  hour  later 
lie  removed  his  coat  and  vest,  and  strapped  a  peculiarly  con 
structed  pistol  holster  across  his  shoulders,  leaving  the  re 
ceptacle  close  under  his  left  armpit.  Into  the  holster  he 


A  Departmental  Case  225 

shoved  a  short-barrelled  .41  calibre  revolver.  Putting  on  his 
clothes  again,  he  strolled  down  to  the  station  and  caught  the 
five-twenty  afternoon  train  for  San  Antonio. 

The  San  Antonio  Express  of  the  following  morning  con 
tained  this  sensational  piece  of  news: 

BENTON  SHARP  MEETS  HIS  MATCH 

THE  MOST  NOTED  DESPERADO  IN  SOUTHWEST  TEXAS  SHOT  TO  DEATH 

IN"    THE    GOLD    FRONT   RESTAURANT* —  PROMINENT   STATE   OFFICIAL 

SUCCESSFULLY    DEFENDS    HIMSELF    AGAINST    THE    NOTED    BULLY  — 

MAGNIFICENT  EXHIBITION  OF  QUICK  GUN  PLAY. 

Last  night  about  eleven  o'clock  Benton  Sharp,  with  two  other  men, 

entered  the  Gold  Front  Restaurant  and  seated  themselves  at  a  table. 

Sharp  had  been  drinking,  and  was  loud  and  boisterous,  as  he  always 

was   when   under   the   influence   of  liquor.    Five  minutes   after   the 

party  was  seated  a  tall,  well-dressed,  elderly  gentleman  entered  the 

restaurant.    Few  present  recognized  the  Honorable  Luke  Standifer, 

the  recently  appointed  Commissioner  of  Insurance,  Statistics,  and 

History. 

Going  over  to  the  same  side  where  Sharp  was,  Mr.  Standifer  pre 
pared  to  take  a  seat  at  the  next  table.  In  hanging  his  hat  upon 
one  of  the  hooks  along  the  wall  he  let  it  fall  upon  Sharp's  head. 
Sharp  turned,  being  in  an  especially  ugly  humour,  and  cursed  the 
other  roundly.  Mr.  Standifer  apologized  calmly  for  the  accident, 
but  Sharp  continued  his  vituperations.  Mr.  Standifer  was  observed 
to  draw  near  and  speak  a  few  sentences  to  the  desperado  in  so  low 
a  tone  that  no  one  else  caught  the  words.  Sharp  sprang  up,  wild 
frith  rage.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Standifer  had  stepped  some  yards 
away,  and  was  standing  quietly  with  his  arms  folded  across  the  breast 
of  his  loosely  hanging  coat. 

With  that  impetuous  and  deadly  rapidity  that  made  Sharp  so- 
dreaded,  he  reached  for  the  gun  he  always  carried  in  his  hip  pocket 

—  a  movement  that  has  preceded  the  death  of  at  least  a  dozen  men 
at  his  hands.    Quick  as  the  motion  was,  the  bystanders  assert  that 
it  was  met  by  the  most  beautiful  exhibition  of  lightning  gun-pulling 
ever  witnessed  in  the  Southwest.    As  Sharp's  pistol  was  being  raised 

—  and  the  act  was  really  quicker  than  the  eye  could  follow  —  a  glit 
tering  .44  appeared  as  if  by  some  conjuring'  trick  in  the  right  hand 
of  Mr.  Standifer,  who,  without  a  perceptible  movement  of  his  arm, 


226  Roads  of  Destiny 

shot  Benton  Sharp  through  the  heart.  It  seems  that  the  new  Com 
missioner  of  Insurance,  Statistics,  and  History  has  been  an  old-time 
Indian  fighter  and  ranger  for  many  years,  which  accounts  for  the 
happy  knack  he  has  of  handling  a  .44. 

It  is  not  believed  that  Mr.  Standifer  will  be  put  to  any  incon 
venience  beyond  a  necessary  formal  hearing  to-day,  as  all  the  wit 
nesses  who  were  present  unite  ia  declaring  that  the  deed  was  done 
in  self-defence. 

When  Mrs.  Sharp  appeared  at  the  office  of  the  commis 
sioner,  according  to  appointment,  she  found  that  gentleman 
calmly  eating  a  golden  russet  apple.  He  greeted  her  without 
embarrassment  and  without  hesitation  at  approaching  the  sub 
ject  that  was  the  topic  of  the  day. 

"I  had  to  do  it,  ma'am,"  he  said,  simply,  "or  get  it  my 
self.  Mr.  Kauffman,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  old  clerk, 
"please  look  up  the  records  of  the  Security  Life  Insurance 
Company  and  see  if  they  are  all  right." 

"No  need  to  look,"  grunted  Kauffman,  who  had  everything 
in  his  head.  "It's  all  O.  K.  They  pay  all  losses  within  ten 
days." 

Mrs.  Sharp  soon  rose  to  depart.  She  had  arranged  to  re 
main  in  town  until  the  policy  was  paid.  The  commissioner 
did  not  detain  her.  She  was  a  woman,  and  he  did  not  know 
just  what  to  say  to  her  at  present.  Rest  and  time  would 
bring  her  what  she  needed. 

But,  as  she  was  leaving,  Luke  Standifer  indulged  himself 
in  an  official  remark: 

"The  Department  of  Insurance,  Statistics,  and  History, 
ma'am,  has  done  the  best  it  could  with  your  case.  'Twas  a 
case  hard  to  cover  according  to  red  tape.  Statistics  failed,  and 
History  missed  fire,  but,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  it.  we 
came  out  particularly  strong  on  Insurance." 


XVII 
THE  RENAISSANCE  AT  CHARLEROI 


CHARLES  was  a  little  Creole  gentleman, 
aged  thirty-four,  with  a  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head  and 
the  manners  of  a  prince.  By  day  he  was  a  clerk  in  a  cotton 
broker's  office  in  one  of  those  cold,  rancid  mountains  of  oozy 
brick,  down  near  the  levee  in  New  Orleans.  By  night,  in  his 
three-story-high  chambre  gamier  in  the  old  French  Quarter  he 
was  again  the  last  male  descendant  of  the  Charles  family, 
that  noble  house  that  had  lorded  it  in  France,  and  had  pushed 
its  way  smiling,  rapiered,  and  courtly  into  Louisiana's  early 
and  brilliant  days.  Of  late  years  the  Charleses  had  subsided 
into  the  more  republican  but  scarcely  less  royally  carried 
magnificence  and  ease  of  plantation  life  along  the  Mississippi. 
Perhaps  Grandemont  was  even  Marquis  de  Brasse.  There 
was  that  title  in  the  family.  But  a  Marquis  on  seventy-five 
dollars  per  month!  V  raiment!  Still,  it  has  been  done  on 
less. 

Grandemont  had  saved  out  of  his  salary  the  sum  of  six 
hundred  dollars.  Enough,  you  would  say,  for  any  man  to 
marry  on.  So,  after  a  silence  of  two  years  on  that  subject, 
he  reopened  that  most  hazardous  question  to  Mile.  Adele 
Fauquier,  riding  down  to  Meade  d'Or,  her  father's  plantation. 
Her  answer  was  the  same  that  it  had  been  any  time  during 
the  last  ten  years:  "First  find  my  brother,  Monsieur 
Charles." 

This  time  he  had  stood  before  her,  perhaps  discouraged  by 
a  love  so  long  and  hopeless,  being  dependent  upon  a  con- 

227 


228  Roads  of  Destiny 

tingency  so  unreasonable,  and  demanded  to  be  told  in  simple 
words  whether  she  loved  him  or  no. 

Adele  looked  at  him  steadily  out  of  her  gray  eyes  that 
betrayed  no  secrets  and  answered,  a  little  more  softly : 

"Grandemont,  you  have  no  right  to  ask  that  question  unless 
you  can  do  what  I  ask  of  you.  Either  bring  back  brother 
Victor  to  us  or  the  proof  that  he  died." 

Somehow,  though  five  times  thus  rejected,  his  heart  was  not 
so  heavy  when  he  left.  She  had  not  denied  that  she  loved. 
Upon  what  shallow  waters  can  the  bark  of  passion  remain 
afloat!  Or,  shall  we  play  the  doctrinaire,  and  hint  that  at 
thirty-four  the  tides  of  life  are  calmer  and  cognizant  of  many 
sources  instead  of  but  one  —  as  at  f our-and-twenty  ? 

Victor  Fauquier  would  never  be  found.  In  those  early  days 
of  his  disappearance  there  was  money  to  the  Charles  name, 
and  Grandemont  had  spent  the  dollars  as  if  they  were  pic 
ayunes  in  trying  to  find  the  lost  youth.  Even  then  he  had 
had  small  hope  of  success,  for  the  Mississippi  gives  up  a 
victim  from  its  oily  tangles  only  at  the  whim  of  its  malign  will. 

A  thousand  times  had  Grandemont  conned  in  his  mind  the 
scene  of  Victor's  disappearance.  And,  at  each  time  that 
Adele  had  set  her  stubborn  but  pitiful  alternative  against  his 
suit,  still  clearer  it  repeated  itself  in  his  brain. 

The  boy  had  been  the  family  favourite;  daring,  winning, 
reckless.  His  unwise  fancy  had  been  captured  by  a  girl  on 
the  plantation  —  the  daughter  of  an  overseer.  Victor's  family 
was  in  ignorance  of  the  intrigue,  as  far  as  it  had  gone.  To 
save  them  the  inevitable  pain  that  his  course  promised,  Grande 
mont  strove  to  prevent  it.  Omnipotent  money  smoothed  the 
way.  The  overseer  and  his  daughter  left,  between  a  sunset 
and  dawn,  for  an  undesignated  bourne.  Grandemont  was  con 
fident  that  this  stroke  would  bring  the  boy  to  reason.  He  rode 
over  to  Meade  d'Or  to  talk  with  him.  The  two  strolled  out 
of  the  house  and  grounds,  crossed  the  road,  and,  mounting  the 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  229 

levee,  walked  its  broad  path  while  they  conversed.  A  thunder 
cloud  was  hanging,  imminent,  above,  but,  as  yet,  no  rain  fell. 
At  Grandemont's  disclosure  of  his  interference  in  the  clandes 
tine  romance,  Victor  attacked  him,  in  a  wild  and  sudden  fury. 
Grandemont,  though  of  slight  frame,  possessed  muscles  of 
iron.  He  caught  the  wrists  amid  a  shower  of  blows  descend 
ing  upon  him,  bent  the  lad  backward  and  stretched  him  upon 
the  levee  path.  In  a  little  while  the  gust  of  passion  was 
spent,  and  he  was  allowed  to  rise.  Calm  now,  but  a  powder 
mine  where  he  had  been  but  a  whiff  of  the  tantrums,  Victor 
extended  his  hand  toward  the  dwelling  house  of  Meade  d'Or. 

"You  and  they,"  he  cried,  "have  conspired  to  destroy  my 
happiness.  None  of  you  shall  ever  look  upon  my  face  again." 

Turing,  he  ran  swiftly  down  the  levee,  disappearing  in  the 
darkness.  Grandemont  followed  as  well  as  he  could,  calling 
to  him,  but  in  vain.  For  longer  than  an  hour  he  pursued  the 
search.  Descending  the  side  of  the  levee,  he  penetrated  the 
rank  density  of  weeds  and  willows  that  undergrew  the  trees 
until  the  river's  edge,  shouting  Victor's  name.  There  was 
never  an  answer,  though  once  he  thought  he  heard  a  bubbling 
scream  from  the  dun  waters  sliding  past.  Then  the  storm 
broke,  and  he  returned  to  the  house  drenched  and  dejected. 

There  he  explained  the  boy's  absence  sufficiently,  he 
thought,  not  speaking  of  the  tangle  that  had  led  to  it,  for  he 
hoped  that  Victor  would  return  as  soon  as  his  anger  had 
cooled.  Afterward,  when  the  threat  was  made  good  and  they 
saw  his  face  no  more,  he  found  it  difficult  to  alter  his  expla 
nations  of  that  night,  and  there  clung  a  certain  mystery  to 
the  boy's  reasons  for  vanishing  as  well  as  to  the  manner  of  it. 

It  was  on  that  night  that  Grandemont  first  perceived  a  new 
and  singular  expression  in  Adele's  eyes  whenever  she  looked 
at  him.  And  through  the  years  following  that  expression 
was  always  there.  He  could  not  read  it,  for  it  was  born  of  a 
thought  she  would  never  otherwise  reveal. 


230  Roads  of  Destiny 

Perhaps,  if  he  had  known  that  Adele  had  stood  at  the  gate 
on  that  unlucky  night,  where  she  had  followed,  lingering,  to 
await  the  return  of  her  brother  and  lover,  wondering  why 
they  had  chosen  so  tempestuous  an  hour  and  so  black  a  spot 
to  hold  converse  —  if  he  had  known  that  a  sudden  flash  of 
lightning  had  revealed  to  her  sight  that  short,  sharp  struggle 
as  Victor  was  sinking  under  his  hands,  he  might  have  ex 
plained  everything,  and  she  — 

I  know  not  what  she  would  have  done.  But  one  thing  is 
clear  —  there  was  something  besides  her  brother's  disappear 
ance  between  Grandemont's  pleadings  for  her  hand  and 
Adele's  "yes-"  Ten  years  had  passed,  and  what  she  had 
seen  during  the  space  of  that  lightning  flash  remained  an  in 
delible  picture.  She  had  loved  her  brother,  but  was  she  hold 
ing  out  for  the  solution  of  that  mystery  or  for  the  "Truth"? 
Women  have  been  known  to  reverence  it,  even  as  an  abstract 
principle.  It  is  said  there  have  been  a  few  who,  in  the  matter 
of  their  affections,  have  considered  a  life  to  be  a  small  thing 
as  compared  with  a  lie.  That  I  do  not  know.  But,  I  wonder, 
had  Grandemont  cast  himself  at  her  feet  crying  that  his  hand 
had  sent  Victor  to  the  bottom  of  that  inscrutable  river,  and 
that  he  could  no  longer  sully  his  love  with  a  lie,  I  wonder  if 
—  I  wonder  what  she  would  have  done ! 

But,  Grandemont  Charles,  Arcadian  little  gentleman,  never 
guessed  the  meaning  of  that  look  in  Adele's  eyes;  and  from 
this  last  bootless  payment  of  his  devoirs  he  rode  away  as  rich 
as  ever  in  honour  and  love,  but  poor  in  hope. 

That  was  in  September.  It  was  during  the  first  winter 
month  that  Grandemont  conceived  his  idea  of  the  renaissance. 
Since  Adele  would  never  be  his,  and  wealth  without  her  were 
useless  trumpery,  why  need  he  add  to  that  hoard  of  slowly 
harvested  dollars  ?  Why  should  he  even  retain  that  hoard  ? 

Hundreds  were  the  cigarettes  he  consumed  over  his  claret, 
sitting  at  the  little  polished  tables  in  the  Royal  street  cafes 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  23! 

while  thinking  over  his  plan.  By  and  by  he  had  it  perfect. 
It  would  cost,  beyond  doubt,  all  the  money  he  had,  but  — 
le  jeu  vaut  la  chandelle  —  for  some  hours  he  would  be  once 
more  a  Charles  of  Charleroi.  Once  again  should  the  nine 
teenth  of  January,  that  most  significant  day  in  the  fortunes 
of  the  house  of  Charles,  be  fittingly  observed.  On  that  date 
the  French  king  had  seated  a  Charles  by  his  side  at  table;  on 
that  date  Armand  Charles,  Marquis  de  Brasse,  landed,  like  a 
brilliant  meteor,  in  New  Orleans;  it  was  the  date  of  his 
mother's  wedding;  of  Grandemont's  birth.  Since  Grande- 
mont  could  remember  until  the  breaking  up  of  the  family  that 
anniversary  had  been  the  synonym  for  feasting,  hospitality, 
and  proud  commemoration. 

Charleroi  was  the  old  family  plantation,  lying  some  twenty 
miles  down  the  river.  Years  ago  the  estate  had  been  sold  to 
discharge  the  debts  of  its  too-bountiful  owners.  Once  again 
it  had  changed  hands,  and  now  the  must  and  mildew  of  liti 
gation  had  setttled  upon  it.  A  question  of  heirship  was  in  the 
courts,  and  the  dwelling  house  of  Charleroi,  unless  the  tales 
told  of  ghostly  powdered  and  laced  Charleses  haunting  its 
unechoing  chambers  were  true,  stood  uninhabited. 

Grandemont  found  the  solicitor  in  chancery  who  held  the 
keys  pending  the  decision.  He  proved  to  be  an  old  friend  of 
the  family.  Grandemont  explained  briefly  that  he  desired  to 
rent  the  house  for  two  or  three  days.  He  wanted  to  give  a 
dinner  at  his  old  home  to  a  few  friends.  That  was  all. 

"Take  it  for  a  week  —  a  month,  if  you  will,"  said  the 
solicitor;  "but  do  not  speak  to  me  of  rental."  With  a  sigh 
he  concluded:  "The  dinners  I  have  eaten  under  that  roof, 
mon  fit!" 

There  came  to  many  of  the  old,  established  dealers  in 
furniture,  china,  silverware,  decorations  and  household  fittings 
at  their  stores  on  Canal,  Chartres,  St.  Charles,  and  Royal 
Streets,  a  quiet  young  man  with  a  little  bald  spot  on  the  top 


232  Roads  of  Destiny 

of  his  head,  distinguished  manners,  and  the  eye  of  a  connois 
seur,  who  explained  what  he  wanted.  To  hire  the  complete 
and  elegant  equipment  of  a  dining-room,  hall,  reception-room, 
and  cloak-rooms.  The  goods  were  to  be  packed  and  sent,  by 
boat,  to  the  Charleroi  landing,  and  would  be  returned  within 
three  or  four  days.  All  damage  or  loss  to  be  promptly  paid 
for. 

Many  of  those  old  merchants  knew  Grandemont  by  sight, 
and  the  Charleses  of  old  by  association.  Some  of  them  were 
of  Creole  stock  and  felt  a  thrill  of  responsive  sympathy  with 
the  magnificently  indiscreet  design  of  this  impoverished  clerk 
who  would  revive  but  for  a  moment  the  ancient  flame  of  glory 
with  the  fuel  of  his  savings. 

"Choose  what  you  want,"  they  said  to  him.  "Handle 
everything  carefully.  See  that  the  damage  bill  is  kept  low, 
and  the  charges  for  the  loan  will  not  oppress  you." 

To  the  wine  merchants  next;  and  here  a  doleful  slice  was 
lopped  from  the  six  hundred.  It  was  an  exquisite  pleasure 
to  Grandemont  once  more  to  pick  among  the  precious  vintages. 
The  champagne  bins  lured  him  like  the  abodes  of  sirens,  but 
these  he  was  forced  to  pass.  With  his  six  hundred  he  stood 
before  them  as  a  child  with  a  penny  stands  before  a  French 
doll.  But  he  bought  with  taste  and  discretion  of  other  wines 

—  Chablis,  Moselle,  Chateau  d'Or,  Hochheimer,  and  port  of 
right  age  and  pedigree. 

The  matter  of  the  cuisine  gave  him  some  studious  hours 
until  he  suddenly  recollected  Andre  —  Andre,  their  old  chef 

—  the  most  sublime  master  of  French  Creole  cookery  in  the 
Mississippi  Valley.     Perhaps  he  was  yet  somewhere  about  the 
plantation.     The  solicitor  had  told  him  that  the  place  was  still 
being  cultivated,  in  accordance  with  a  compromise  agreement 
between  the  litigants. 

On  the  next  Sunday  after  the  thought  Grandemont  rode, 
horseback,  down  to  Charleroi.  The  big,  square  house  with 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  233 

its  two  long  ells  looked  blank  and  cheerless  with  its  closed 
shutters  and  doors. 

The  shrubbery  in  the  yard  was  ragged  and  riotous.  Fallen 
leaves  from  the  grove  littered  the  walks  and  porches.  Turn 
ing  down  the  lane  at  the  side  of  the  house,  Grandemont  rode 
on  to  the  quarters  of  the  plantation  hands.  He  found  the 
workers  just  streaming  back  from  church,  careless,  happy, 
and  bedecked  in  gay  yellows,  reds,  and  blues. 

Yes,  Andre  was  still  there;  his  wool  a  little  grayer;  his 
mouth  as  wide;  his  laughter  as  ready  as  ever.  Grandemont 
told  him  of  his  plan,  and  the  old  chef  swayed  with  pride  and 
delight.  With  a  sigh  of  relief,  knowing  that  he  need  have 
no  further  concern  until  the  serving  of  that  dinner  was  an 
nounced,  he  placed  in  Andre's  hands  a  liberal  sum  for  the 
cost  of  it,  giving  carte  blanche  for  its  creation. 

Among  the  blacks  were  also  a  number  of  the  old  house 
servants.  Absalom,  the  former  major  domo,  and  a  half-dozen 
of  the  younger  men,  once  waiters  and  attaches  of  the  kitchen, 
pantry,  and  other  domestic  departments  crowded  around  to 
greet  "M'shi  Grande."  Absalom  guaranteed  to  marshal,  of 
these,  a  corps  of  assistants  that  would  perform  with  credit  the 
serving  of  the  dinner. 

After  distributing  a  liberal  largesse  among  the  faithful, 
Grandemont  rode  back  to  town  well  pleased.  There  were 
many  other  smaller  details  to  think  of  and  provide  for,  but 
eventually  the  scheme  was  complete,  and  now  there  remained 
only  the  issuance  of  the  invitations  to  his  guests. 

Along  the  river  within  the  scope  of  a  score  of  miles  dwelt 
some  half-dozen  families  with  whose  princely  hospitality  that 
of  the  Charleses  had  been  contemporaneous.  They  were  the 
proudest  and  most  august  of  the  old  regime.  Their  small 
circle  had  been  a  brilliant  one;  their  social  relations  close  and 
warm;  their  houses  full  of  rare  welcome  and  discriminating 
bounty.  Those  friends,  said  Grandemont,  should  once  more. 


234  Roads  of  Destiny 

if  never  again,  sit  at  Charleroi  on  a  nineteenth  of  January  to 
celebrate  the  festal  day  of  his  house. 

Grandemont  had  his  cards  of  invitation  engraved.  They 
were  expensive,  but  beautiful.  In  one  particular  their  good 
taste  might  have  been  disputed;  but  the  Creole  allowed  him 
self  that  one  feather  in  the  cap  of  his  fugacious  splendour. 
Might  he  not  be  allowed,  for  the  one  day  of  the  renaissance, 
to  be  "Grandemont  du  Puy  Charles,  of  Charleroi"?  He 
sent  the  invitations  out  early  in  January  so  that  the  guests 
might  not  fail  to  receive  due  notice. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth,  the  lower 
coast  steamboat  River  Belle  gingerly  approached  the  long 
unused  landing  at  Charleroi.  The  bridge  was  lowered,  and 
a  swarm  of  the  plantation  hands  streamed  along  the  rotting 
pier,  bearing  ashore  a  strange  assortment  of  freight.  Great 
shapeless  bundles  and  bales  and  packets  swathed  in  cloths 
and  bound  with  ropes;  tubs  and  urns  of  palms,  evergreens, 
and  tropical  flowers;  tables,  mirrors,  chairs,  couches,  carpets, 
and  pictures  —  all  carefully  bound  and  padded  against  the 
dangers  of  transit. 

Grandemont  was  among  them,  the  busiest  there.  To  the 
safe  conveyance  of  certain  large  hampers  eloquent  with 
printed  cautions  to  delicate  handling  he  gave  his  superinten 
dence,  for  they  contained  the  fragile  china  and  glassware. 
The  dropping  of  one  of  those  hampers  would  have  cost  him 
more  than  he  could  have  saved  in  a  year. 

The  last  article  unloaded,  the  River  Belle  backed  off  and 
continued  her  course  down  stream.  In  less  than  an  hour 
everything  had  been  conveyed  to  the  house.  And  came  then 
Absalom's  task,  directing  the  placing  of  the  furniture  and 
wares.  There  was  plenty  of  help,  for  that  day  was  always  a 
holiday  in  Charleroi,  and  the  Negroes  did  not  suffer  the  old 
traditions  to  lapse.  Almost  the  entire  population  of  the  quar 
ters  volunteered  their  aid.  A  score  of  piccaninnies  were 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  235 

sweeping  at  the  leaves  in  the  yard.  In  the  big  kitchen  at  the 
rear  Andre  was  lording  it  with  his  old-time  magnificence  over 
his  numerous  sub-cooks  and  scullions.  Shutters  were  flung 
wide;  dust  spun  in  clouds;  the  house  echoed  to  voices  and  the 
tread  of  busy  feet.  The  prince  had  come  again,  and  Char 
leroi  woke  from  its  long  sleep. 

The  full  moon,  as  she  rose  across  the  river  that  night  and 
peeped  above  the  levee,  saw  a  sight  that  had  been  long  missing 
from  her  orbit.  The  old  plantation  house  shed  a  soft  and 
alluring  radiance  from  every  window.  Of  its  two-score  rooms 
only  four  had  been  refurnished  —  the  large  reception  cham 
ber,  the  dining  hall,  and  two  smaller  rooms  for  the  conven 
ience  of  the  expected  guests.  But  lighted  wax  candles  were 
set  in  the  windows  of  every  room. 

The  dining  hall  was  the  chef  d'ceuvre.  The  long  table, 
set  with  twenty-five  covers,  sparkled  like  a  winter  landscape 
with  its  snowy  napery  and  china  and  the  icy  gleam  of  crystal. 
The  chaste  beauty  of  the  room  had  required  small  adornment. 
The  polished  floor  burned  to  a  glowing  ruby  with  the  reflec 
tion  of  candle  light.  The  rich  wainscoting  reached  half  way 
to  the  ceiling.  Along  and  above  this  had  been  set  the  reliev 
ing  lightness  of  a  few  water-colour  sketches  of  fruit  and 
flower. 

The  reception  chamber  was  fitted  in  a  simple  but  elegant 
style.  Its  arrangement  suggested  nothing  of  the  fact  that  on 
the  morrow  the  room  would  again  be  cleared  and  abandoned 
to  the  dust  and  the  spider.  The  entrance  hall  was  imposing 
with  palms  and  ferns  and  the  light  of  an  immense  cande 
labrum. 

At  seven  o'clock  Grandemont,  in  evening  dress,  with  pearls 
—  a  family  passion  —  in  his  spotless  linen,  emerged  from 
somewhere.  The  invitations  had  specified  eight  as  the  dining 
hour.  He  drew  an  armchair  upon  the  porch,  and  sat  there, 
smoking  cigarettes  and  half  dreaming. 


236  Roads  of  Destiny 

The  moon  was  an  hour  high.  Fifty  yards  back  from  the 
gate  stood  the  house,  under  its  noble  grove.  The  road  ran  in 
front,  and  then  came  the  grass-grown  levee  and  the  insatiate 
river  beyond.  Just  above  the  levee  top  a  tiny  red  light  was 
creeping  down  and  a  tiny  green  one  was  creeping  up.  Then 
the  passing  steamers  saluted,,  and  the  hoarse  din  startled  the 
drowsy  silence  of  the  melancholy  lowlands.  The  stillness 
returned,  save  for  the  little  voices  of  the  night  —  the  owl's 
recitative,  the  capriccio  of  the  crickets,  the  concerto  of  the 
frogs  in  the  grass.  The  piccaninnies  and  the  dawdlers  from 
the  quarters  had  been  dismissed  to  their  confines,  and  the 
melee  of  the  day  was  reduced  to  an  orderly  and  intelligent 
silence.  The  six  coloured  waiters,  in  their  white  jackets, 
paced,  cat-footed,  about  the  table,  pretending  to  arrange 
where  all  was  beyond  betterment.  Absalom,  in  black  and 
shining  pumps,  posed,  superior,  here  and  there  where  the 
lights  set  off  his  grandeur.  And  Grandemont  rested  in  his 
chair,  waiting  for  his  guests. 

He  must  have  drifted  into  a  dream  —  and  an  extravagant 
one  —  for  he  was  master  of  Charleroi  and  Adele  was  his  wife. 
She  was  coming  out  to  him  now;  he  could  hear  her  steps;  he 
could  feel  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  — 

"Pardon  moi,  M'shi  Grande" — it  was  Absalom's  hand 
touching  him,  it  was  Absalom's  voice,  speaking  the  patois  of 
the  blacks  — "but  it  is  eight  o'clock." 

Eight  o'clock.  Grandemont  sprang  up.  In  the  moonlight 
he  could  see  the  row  of  hitching-posts  outside  the  gate.  Long 
ago  the  horses  of  the  guests  should  have  stood  there.  They 
were  vacant. 

A  chanted  roar  of  indignation,  a  just,  waxing  bellow  of 
affront  and  dishonoured  genius  came  from  Andre's  kitchen, 
filling  the  house  with  rhythmic  protest.  The  beautiful  dinner, 
the  pearl  of  a  dinner,  the  little  excellent  superb  jewel  of  a 
dinner!  But  one  moment  more  of  waiting  and  not  even  the 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  237 

thousand  thunders  of  black  pigs  of  the  quarters  would  touch 
it! 

"They  are  a  little  late/'  said  Grandemont,  calmly.  "They 
will  come  soon.  Tell  Andre  to  hold  back  dinner.  And  ask 
him  if,  by  some  chance,  a  bull  from  the  pastures  has  broken, 
roaring,  into  the  house." 

He  seated  himself  again  to  his  cigarettes.  Though  he  had 
said  it,  he  scarcely  believed  Charleroi  would  entertain  company 
that  night.  For  the  first  time  in  history  the  invitation  of  a 
Charles  had  been  ignored.  So  simple  in  courtesy  and  honour 
was  Grandemont  and,  perhaps,  so  serenely  confident  in  the 
prestige  of  his  name,  that  the  most  likely  reasons  for  his 
vacant  board  did  not  occur  to  him. 

Charleroi  stood  by  a  road  travelled  daily  by  people  from 
those  plantations  whither  his  invitations  had  gone.  No  doubt 
even  on  the  day  before  the  sudden  reanimation  of  the  old  house 
they  had  driven  past  and  observed  the  evidences  of  long  de 
sertion  and  decay.  They  had  looked  at  the  corpse  of  Charle 
roi  and  then  at  Grandemont's  invitations,  and,  though  the 
puzzle  or  tasteless  hoax  or  whatever  the  thing  meant  left  them 
perplexed,  they  would  not  seek  its  solution  by  the  folly  of  a 
visit  to  that  deserted  house. 

The  moon  was  now  above  the  grove,  and  the  yard  was  pied 
with  deep  shadows  save  where  they  lightened  in  the  tender  glow 
of  outpouring  candle  light.  A  crisp  breeze  from  the  river 
hinted  at  the  possibility  of  frost  when  the  night  should  have 
become  older.  The  grass  at  one  side  of  the  steps  was  specked 
with  the  white  stubs  of  Grandemont's  cigarettes.  The  cot 
ton-broker's  clerk  sat  in  his  chair  with  the  smoke  spiralling 
above  him.  I  doubt  that  he  once  thought  of  the  little  fortune 
he  had  so  impotently  squandered.  Perhaps  it  was  compen 
sation  enough  for  him  to  sit  thus  at  Charleroi  for  a  few  re 
trieved  hours.  Idly  his  mind  wandered  in  and  out  many 
fanciful  paths  of  memory.  He  smiled  to  himself  as  a  para- 


•238  Roads  of  Destiny 

phrased  line  of  Scripture  strayed  into  his  mind:  "A  certain 
poor  man  made  a  feast." 

He  heard  the  sound  of  Absalom  coughing  a  note  of  sum 
mons.  Grandemont  stirred.  This  time  he  had  not  been 
asleep  —  only  drowsing. 

"Nine  o'clock,  M'shi  Grande,"  said  Absalom  in  the  unin- 
flected  voice  of  a  good  servant  who  states  a  fact  unqualified 
by  personal  opinion. 

Grandemont  rose  to  his  feet.  In  their  time  all  the 
Charleses  had  been  proven,  and  they  were  gallant  losers. 

"Serve  dinner,"  he  said  calmly.  And  then  he  checked 
Absalom's  movement  to  obey,  for  something  clicked  the  gate 
latch  and  was  coming  down  the  walk  toward  the  house.  Some 
thing  that  shuffled  its  feet  and  muttered  to  itself  as  it  came. 
It  stopped  in  the  current  of  light  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and 
spake,  in  the  universal  whine  of  the  gadding  mendicant. 

"Kind  sir,  could  you  spare  a  poor,  hungry  man,  out  of 
luck,  a  little  to  eat?  And  to  sleep  in  the  corner  of  a  shed? 
For" —  the  thing  concluded,  irrelevantly  — "I  can  sleep  now. 
There  are  no  mountains  to  dance  reels  in  the  night;  and  the 
copper  kettles  are  all  scoured  bright.  The  iron  band  is  still 
around  my  ankle,  and  a  link,  if  it  is  your  desire  I  should  be 
chained." 

It  set  a  foot  upon  the  step  and  drew  up  the  rags  that  hung 
Upon  the  limb.  Above  the  distorted  shoe,  caked  with  the  dust 
of  a  hundred  leagues,  they  saw  the  link  and  the  iron  band. 
The  clothes  of  the  tramp  were  wreaked  to  piebald  tatters 
by  sun  and  rain  and  wear.  A  mat  of  brown,  tangled  hair 
and  beard  covered  his  head  and  face,  out  of  which  his  eyes 
stared  distractedly.  Grandemont  noticed  that  he  carried  in 
one  hand  a  white,  square  card. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  picked  it  up,  sir,  at  the  side  of  thi  road."  The  vaga 
bond  handed  the  card  to  Grandemont.  "Just  a  little  to  eat, 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  239 

sir.  A  little  parched  corn,  a  tartilla,  or  a  handful  of  beans. 
Goat's  meat  I  cannot  eat.  When  I  cut  their  throats  they  cry 
like  children." 

Grandemont  held  up  the  card.  It  was  one  of  his  own  in 
vitations  to  dinner.  No  doubt  some  one  had  cast  it  away 
from  a  passing  carriage  after  comparing  it  with  the  tenant- 
less  house  at  Charleroi. 

"From  the  hedges  and  highways  bid  them  come,"  he  said 
to  himself,  softly  smiling.  And  then  to  Absalom:  "Send 
Louis  to  me." 

Louis,  once  his  own  body-servant,  came  promptly,  in  his 
white  jacket. 

"This  gentleman,"  said  Grandemont,  "will  dine  with  me. 
Furnish  him  with  bath  and  clothes.  In  twenty  minutes  have 
him  ready  and  dinner  served." 

Louis  approached  the  disreputable  guest  with  the  suavity 
due  to  a  visitor  to  Charleroi,  and  spirited  him  away  to  inner 
regions. 

Promptly,  in  twenty  minutes,  Absalom  announced  dinner, 
and,  a  moment  later,  the  guest  was  ushered  into  the  dining 
hall  where  Grandemont  waited,  standing,  at  the  head  of  the 
table.  The  attentions  of  Louis  Lad  transformed  the  stranger 
into  something  resembling  the  polite  animal.  Clean  linen 
and  an  old  evening  suit  that  had  been  sent  down  from  town 
to  clothe  a  waiter  had  worked  a  miracle  with  his  exterior. 
Brush  and  comb  had  partially  subdued  the  wild  disorder  of 
his  hair.  Now  he  might  have  passed  for  no  more  extrav 
agant  a  thing  than  one  of  those  poseurs  in  art  and  music 
who  affect  such  oddity  of  guise.  The  man's  countenance  and 
demeanour,  as  he  approached  the  table,  exhibited  nothing  of 
the  awkwardness  or  confusion  to  be  expected  from  his  Arabian 
Nights  change.  He  allowed  Absalom  to  seat  him  at  Grande- 
mont's  right  hand  with  the  manner  of  one  thus  accustomed 
to  be  waited  upon. 


240  Roads  of  Destiny 

"It  grieves  me,"  said  Grandemont,  "to  be  obliged  to  ex 
change  names  with  a  guest.  My  own  name  is  Charles," 

"In  the  mountains/'  said  the  wayfarer,  "they  call  me 
Gringo.  Along  the  roads  they  call  me  Jack." 

"I  prefer  the  latter,"  said  Grandemont.  "A  glass  of  wine 
with  you,  Mr.  Jack." 

Course  after  course  was  served  by  the  supernumerous  wait 
ers.  Grandemont,  inspired  by  the  results  of  Andre's  ex 
quisite  skill  in  cookery  and  his  own  in  the  selection  of  wines 
became  the  model  host,  talkative,  witty,  and  genial.  The 
guest  was  fitful  in  conversation.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  sus 
taining  a  succession  of  waves  of  dementia  followed  by  inter 
vals  of  comparative  lucidity.  There  was  the  glassy  bright 
ness  of  recent  fever  in  his  eyes.  A  long  course  of  it  must 
have  been  the  cause  of  his  emaciation  and  weakness,  his  dis 
tracted  mind,  and  the  dull  pallor  that  showed  even  through 
the  tan  of  wind  and  sun. 

"Charles,"  he  said  to  Grandemont  —  for  thus  he  seemed  to 
interpret  his  name — "you  never  saw  the  mountains  dance, 
did  you?" 

"No,  Mr.  Jack,"  answered  Grandemont,  gravely,  "the  spec 
tacle  has  been  denied  me.  But,  I  assure  you,  I  can  under 
stand  it  must  be  a  diverting  sight.  The  big  ones,  you  know, 
white  with  snow  on  the  tops,  waltzing  —  decollete,  we  may 
say." 

"You  first  scour  the  kettles,"  said  Mr.  Jack,  leaning  to 
ward  him  excitedly,  "to  cook  the  beans  in  the  morning,  and 
you  lie  down  on  a  blanket  and  keep  quite  still.  Then  they 
come  out  and  dance  for  you.  You  would  go  out  and  dance 
with  them  but  you  are  chained  every  night  to  the  centre  pole 
of  the  hut.  You  believe  the  mountains  dance,  don't  you, 
Charlie?" 

"I  contradict  no  traveller's  tales,"  said  Grandemont,  with 
a  smile. 


The  Renaissance  at  Charleroi  241 

Mr.  Jack  laughed  loudly.  He  dropped  his  voice  to  a  con 
fidential  whisper. 

"You  are  a  fool  to  believe  it,"  he  went  on.  "They  don't 
really  dance.  It's  the  fever  in  your  head.  It's  the  hard 
work  and  the  bad  water  that  does  it.  You  are  sick  for 
weeks  and  there  is  no  medicine.  The  fever  comes  on  every 
evening,  and  then  you  are  as  strong  as  two  men.  One 
night  the  compania  are  lying  drunk  with  mescal.  They  have 
brought  back  sacks  of  silver  dollars  from  a  ride,  and  they 
drink  to  celebrate.  In  the  night  you  file  the  chain  in  two 
and  go  down  the  mountain.  You  walk  for  miles  —  hundreds 
of  them.  By  and  by  the  mountains  are  all  gone,  and  you 
come  to  the  prairies.  They  do  not  dance  at  night;  they  are 
merciful,  and  you  sleep.  Then  you  come  to  the  river,  and  it 
says  things  to  you.  You  follow  it  down,  down,  but  you 
can't  find  what  you  are  looking  for." 

Mr.  Jack  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes  slowly 
closed.  The  food  and  wine  had  steeped  him  in  a  deep  calm. 
The  tense  strain  had  been  smoothed  from  his  face.  The 
languor  of  repletion  was  claiming  him.  Drowsily  he  spoke 
again. 

"It's  bad  manners  —  I  know  —  to  go  to  sleep  —  at  table 
—  but  —  that  was  —  such  a  good  dinner  —  Grande,  old  fel 
low." 

Grande!  The  owner  of  the  name  started  and  set  down  his 
glass.  How  should  this  wretched  tatterdemalion  whom  he  had 
invited,  Caliph-like,  to  sit  at  his  feast  know  his  name  ? 

Not  at  first,  but  soon,  little  by  little,  the  suspicion,  wild  and 
unreasonable  as  it  was,  stole  into  his  brain.  He  drew  out  his 
watch  with  hands  that  almost  balked  him  by  their  trembling, 
and  opened  the  back  case.  There  was  a  picture  there  —  a 
photograph  fixed  to  the  inner  side. 

Rising,  Grandemont  shook  Mr.  Jack  by  the  shoulder.  The 
yeary  guest  opened  his  eyes.  Grandemont  held  the  watch. 


242  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Look  at  this  picture,  Mr.  Jack.     Have  you  ever — " 

"My  sister  Adele!" 

The  vagrant's  voice  rang  loud  and  sudden  through  the 
room.  He  started  to  his  feet,  but  Grandeinont's  arms  were 
about  him,  and  Grandemont  was  calling  him  "Victor !  —  Vic 
tor  Fauquier!  Mtrci,  merci,  mon  Dieu!" 

Too  far  overcome  by  sleep  and  fatigue  was  the  lost  one 
to  talk  that  night.  Days  afterward,  when  the  tropic  calen- 
tura  had  cooled  in  his  veins,  the  disordered  fragments  he  had 
spoken  were  completed  in  shape  and  sequence.  He  told  the 
story  of  his  angry  flight,  of  toils  and  calamities  on  sea  and 
shore,  of  his  ebbing  and  flowing  fortune  in  southern  lands, 
and  of  his  latest  peril  when,  held  a  captive,  he  served  menially 
in  a  stronghold  of  bandits  in  the  Sonora  Mountains  of  Mex 
ico.  And  of  the  fever  that  seized  him  there  and  his  escape 
and  delirium,  during  which  he  strayed,  perhaps  led  by  some 
marvellous  instinct,  back  to  the  river  on  whose  bank  he  had 
been  born.  And  of  the  proud  and  stubborn  thing  in  his 
blood  that  had  kept  him  silent  through  all  those  years,  cloud 
ing  the  honour  of  one,  though  he  knew  it  not,  and  keeping 
apart  two  loving  hearts.  "What  a  thing  is  love!"  you  may 
say.  And  if  I  grant  it,  you  shall  say,  with  me:  "What  a 
thing  is  pride !" 

On  a  couch  in  the  reception  chamber  Victor  lay,  with  a  dawn 
ing  understanding  in  his  heavy  eyes  and  peace  in  his  softened 
countenance.  Absalom  was  preparing  a  lounge  for  the  tran 
sient  master  of  Charleroi,  who,  to-morrow,  would  be  again 
the  clerk  of  a  cotton  broker,  but  also  — 

"To-morrow,"  Grandemont  was  saying,  as  he  stood  by  the 
couch  of  his  guest,  speaking  the  words  with  his  face  shining 
as  must  have  shone  the  face  of  Elijah's  charioteer  when  he 
announced  the  glories  of  that  heavenly  journey  — "To-mor 
row  I  will  take  you  to  Her." 


XVIII 
ON  BEHALF  OF  THE  MANAGEMENT 

iHIS  is  the  story  of  the  man  manager,  and  how  he  held  his 
own  until  the  very  last  paragraph. 

I  had  it  from  Sully  Magoon,  viva  voce.  The  words  are  in 
deed  his;  and  if  they  do  not  constitute  truthful  fiction  my 
memory  should  be  taxed  with  the  blame. 

It  is  not  deemed  amiss  to  point  out,  in  the  beginning,  the 
stress  that  is  laid  upon  the  masculinity  of  the  manager.  For, 
according  to  Sully,  the  term  when  applied  to  the  feminine 
division  of  mankind  has  precisely  an  opposite  meaning.  The 
woman  manager  (he  says)  economizes,  saves,  oppresses  her 
household  with  bargains  and  contrivances,  and  looks  sourly 
upon  any  pence  that  are  cast  to  the  fiddler  for  even  a  single 
jig-step  on  life's  arid  march.  Wherefore  her  men-folk  call 
her  blessed,  and  praise  her;  and  then  sneak  out  the  backdoor 
to  see  the  Gilhooly  Sisters  do  a  buck-and-wing  dance. 

Now,  the  man  manager  (I  still  quote  Sully)  is  a  Caesar 
without  a  Brutus.  He  is  an  autocrat  without  responsibility, 
a  player  who  imperils  no  stake  of  his  own.  His  office  is  to 
enact,  to  reverberate,  to  boom,  to  expand,  to  out-coruscate  — 
profitably,  if  he  can.  Bill-paying  and  growing  gray  hairs 
over  results  belong  to  his  principals.  It  is  his  to  guide  the 
risk,  to  be  the  Apotheosis  of  Front,  the  three-tailed  Bashaw 
of  Bluff,  the  Essential  Oil  ef  Razzle-Dazzle. 

We  sat  at  luncheon,  and  Sully  Magoon  told  me.  I  asked 
for  particulars. 

"My  old  friend  Denver  Galloway  was  a  born  manager," 

243 


244  Roads  of  Destiny 

said  Sully.  "He  first  saw  the  light  of  day  in  New  York  at 
three  years  of  age.  He  was  born  in  Pittsburg,  but  his  par 
ents  moved  East  the  third  summer  afterward. 

"When  Denver  grew  up,  he  went  into  the  managing  busi 
ness.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  managed  a  news-stand  for  the 
Dago  that  owned  it.  After  that  he  was  manager  at  differ 
ent  times  of  a  skating-rink,  a  livery-stable,  a  policy  game, 
a  restaurant,  a  dancing  academy,  a  walking  match,  a  burlesque 
company,  a  dry-goods  store,  a  dozen  hotels  and  summer  re 
sorts,  an  insurance  company,  and  a  district  leader's  campaign. 
That  campaign,  when  Coughlin  was  elected  on  the  East  Side, 
gave  Denver  a  boost.  It  got  him  a  job  as  manager  of  a 
Broadway  hotel,  and  for  a  while  he  managed  Senator 
O'Grady's  campaign  in  the  nineteenth. 

"Denver  was  a  New  Yorker  all  over.  I  think  he  was  out 
of  the  city  just  twice  before  the  time  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
about.  Once  he  went  rabbit-shooting  in  Yonkers.  The  oilier 
time  I  met  him  just  landing  from  a  North  River  ferry. 
'Been  out  West  on  a  big  trip,  Sully,  old  boy/  says  he. 
'Gad!  Sully,  I  had  no  idea  we  had  such  a  big  country.  It's 
immense.  Never  conceived  of  the  magnificence  of  the  West 
before.  It's  gorgeous  and  glorious  and  infinite.  Makes  the 
East  seem  cramped  and  little.  It's  a  grand  thing  to  travel 
and  get  an  idea  of  the  extent  and  resources  of  our  country/ 

"I'd  made  several  little  runs  out  to  California  and  down 
to  Mexico  and  up  through  Alaska,  so  I  sits  down  with  Den 
ver  for  a  chat  about  the  things  he  saw. 

"  'Took  in  the  Yosemite,  out  there,  of  course?'  I  asks. 

"  'Well  —  no/  says  Denver,  'I  don't  think  so.  At  least, 
I  don't  recollect  it.  You  see,  I  only  had  three  days,  and  I 
didn't  get  any  farther  west  than  Youngstown,  Ohio.' 

"About  two  years  ago  I  dropped  into  New  York  with  a 
little  fly-paper  proposition  about  a  Tennessee  mica  mine  that 
I  wanted  to  spread  out  in  a  nice,  sunny  window,  in  the  hopes 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          245 

of  catching  a  few.  I  was  coming  out  of  a  printing-shop  one 
afternoon  with  a  batch  of  fine,  sticky  prospectuses  when  I 
ran  against  Denver  coming  around  a  corner.  I  never  saw 
him  looking  so  much  like  a  tiger-lily.  He  was  as  beautiful 
and  new  as  a  trellis  of  sweet  peas,  and  as  rollicking  as  a 
clarinet  solo.  We  shook  hands,  and  he  asked  me  what  I  was 
doing,  and  I  gave  him  the  outlines  of  the  scandal  I  was  try 
ing  to  create  in  mica. 

"  'Pooh,  pooh !  for  your  mica,'  says  Denver.  'Don't  you 
know  better,  Sully,  then  to  bump  up  against  the  coffers  of 
little  old  New  York  with  anything  as  transparent  as  mica? 
Now,  you  come  with  me  over  to  the  Hotel  Brunswick.  You're 
just  the  man  I  was  hoping  for.  I've  got  something  there  in 
sepia  and  curled  hair  tliat  I  want  yov  to  look  at.' 

'  'You  putting  up  at  the  Brunswick?'  I  asks. 

"  'Not  a  cent/  says  Denver,  cheerful.  'Tha  syndicate  that 
owns  the  hotel  puts  up.  I'm  manager.' 

"The  Brunswick  wasn't  one  of  them  Broadway  pot-houses 
all  full  of  palms  and  hyphens  and  flowers  and  costumes  — 
kind  of  a  mixture  of  lawns  and  laundries.  It  was  on  one 
of  the  East  Side  avenues;  but  it  was  a  solid,  old-time  cara 
vansary  such  as  the  Mayor  of  Skaneateles  or  the  Governor 
of  Missouri  might  stop  at.  Eight  stories  high  it  stalked  up, 
with  new  striped  awnings,  and  the  electrics  had  it  as  light  as 
day. 

14  'I've  been  manager  here  for  a  year,'  says  Denver,  as 
we  drew  nigh.  'When  I  took  charge,'  says  he,  'nobody  nor 
nothing  ever  stopped  at  the  Brunswick.  The  clock  over  the 
clerks'  desk  used  to  run  for  weeks  without  winding.  A  man 
fell  dead  with  heart-disease  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  it 
one  day,  and  when  they  went  to  pick  him  up  he  was  two 
blocks  away.  I  figured  out  a  scheme  to  catch  the  West  In 
dies  and  South  American  trade.  I  persuaded  the  owners  to 
invest  a  few  more  thousands,  and  I  put  every  cent  of  it  in 


246  Roads  of  Destiny 

electric  lights,  cayenne  pepper,  gold-leaf,  and  garlic.  I  got 
a  Spanish-speaking  force  of  employees  and  a  string  band; 
and  there  was  talk  going  around  of  a  cockfight  in  the  base 
ment  every  Sunday.  Maybe  I  didn't  catch  the  nut-brown 
gang!  From  Havana  to  Patagonia  the  Don  Sefiors  knew 
about  the  Brunswick.  We  get  the  highfliers  from  Cuba  and 
Mexico  and  the  couple  of  Americas  farther  south ;  and  they've 
simply  got  the  boodle  to  bombard  every  bullfinch  in  the  bush 
with.' 

"When  we  get  to  the  hotel,  Denver  stops  me  at  the  door. 

"  'There's  a  little  liver-coloured  man/  says  he,  'sitting  in 
a  big  leather  chair  to  your  right,  inside.  You  sit  down  and 
watch  him  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  tell  me  what  you 
think/ 

"I  cook  a  ch-Jr,  while  Denver  circulates  around  in  the  big 
rotunda.  The  oom  was  about  full  of  curly-headed  Cubans 
and  South  Ame-ican  brunettes  of  different  shades;  and  the 
atmosphere  was  international  with  cigarette  smoke,  lit  up  by 
diamond  rings  and  edged  off  with  a  whisper  of  garlic. 

"That  Denver  Galloway  was  sure  a  relief  to  the  eye.  Six 
feet  two  he  was,  red-headed,  and  pink-gilled  as  a  sun-perch. 
And  the  air  he  had!  Court  of  Saint  James,  Chauncey  Ol- 
cott,  Kentucky  colonels,  Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  grand  opera 
—  all  these  things  he  reminded  you  of  when  he  was  doing 
the  honours.  When  he  raised  his  finger  the  hotel  porters  and 
bell-boys  skated  across  the  floor  like  cockroaches,  and  even 
the  clerk  behind  the  desk  looked  as  meek  and  unimportant 
as  Andy  Carnegie. 

"Denver  passed  around,  shaking  hands  with  his  guests, 
and  saying  over  the  two  or  three  Spanish  words  he  knew  until 
it  was  like  a  coronation  rehearsal  or  a  Bryan  barbecue  in 
Texas. 

"I  watched  the  little  man  he  told  me  to.  'Twas  a  little 
foreign  person  in  a  double-breasted  frock-coat,  trying  to 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          247 

touch  the  floor  with  his  toes.  He  was  the  colour  of  vici  kid, 
and  his  whiskers  was  like  excelsior  made  out  of  mahogany 
wood.  He  breathed  hard,  and  he  never  once  took  his  eyes 
off  of  Denver.  There  was  a  look  of  admiration  and  respect 
on  his  face  like  you  see  on  a  boy  that's  following  a  cham 
pion  base-ball  team,  or  the  Kaiser  William  looking  at  himself 
in  a  glass. 

"After  Denver  goes  his  rounds  he  takes  me  into  his  private 
office. 

'  'What's  your  report  on  the  dingy  I  told  you  to  watch  ?' 
he  asks. 

'  'Well/  says  I,  'if  you  was  as  big  a  man  as  he  takes  you 
to  be,  nine  r^oms  and  bath  in  the  Hall  of  Fame,  rent  free 
till  October  1  st,  v  ould  be  about  your  size.' 

'  'You've  caught  the  idea,'  says  Denver.  'I've  given  him 
tLe  wizard  grip  and  the  cabalistic  eye.  The  glamour  that 
emanates  from  yours  truly  has  enveloped  him  like  a  North 
River  fog.  He  seems  to  think  that  Senor  Galloway  is  the 
man  who.  I  guess  thev  don't  raise  74-inch  sorrel-tops  with 
romping  ways  down  in  his  precinct.  Now,  Sully/  goes  on 
Denver,  'if  you  was  asked,  what  would  you  take  the  little 
man  to  be?' 

"  'Why/  says  I,  'the  barber  around  the  corner ;  or,  if  he's 
royal,  the  king  of  the  boot-blacks/ 

"  'Never  judge  by  looks/  says  Denver;  'he's  the  dark-horse 
candidate  for  president  of  a  South  American  republic.' 

'  'Well/  says  I,  'he  didn't  look  quite  that  bad  to  me/ 

"Then  Denver  draws  his  chair  up  close  and  gives  out  his 
scheme. 

"  'SulJy/  says  he,  with  seriousness  and  levity,  'I've  been 
a  manager  of  one  thing  and  another  for  over  twenty  years. 
That's  what  I  was  cut  out  for  —  to  have  somebody  else  to 
put  up  the  money  and  look  after  the  repairs  and  the  police 
and  taxes  while  I  run  the  business.  I  never  had  a  dollar  of 


248  Roads  of  Destiny 

my  own  invested  in  my  life.  I  wouldn't  know  how  it  felt 
to  have  the  dealer  rake  in  a  coin  of  mine.  But  I  can  handle 
other  people's  stuff  and  manage  other  people's  enterprises. 
I've  had  an  ambition  to  get  hold  of  something  big  —  something 
higher  than  hotels  and  lumber-yards  and  local  politics.  I 
want  to  be  manager  of  something  way  up  —  like  a  railroad 
or  a  diamond  trust  or  an  automobile  factory.  Now  here 
comes  this  little  man  from  the  tropics  with  just  what  I  want, 
and  he's  offered  me  the  job.' 

"'What  job?'  I  asks.  'Is  he  going  to  revive  the  Georgia 
Minstrels  or  open  a  cigar  store?' 

"  'He's  no  'coon/  says  Denver,  severe.  'He's  General 
Rompiro  —  General  Josey  Alfonso  Sapolio  Jew- Ann  Rom- 
piro  —  he  has  his  cards  printed  by  a  news-ticker.  He's  the 
real  thing,  Sully,  and  he  wants  me  to  manage  his  campaign  — 
he  wants  Denver  C.  Galloway  for  a  president-maker.  Think 
of  that,  Sully!  Old  Denver  romping  down  to  the  tropics, 
plucking  lotos-flowers  and  pineapples  with  one  hand  and 
making  presidents  with  the  other !  Won't  it  make  Uncle  Mark 
Hanna  mad?  And  I  want  you  to  go  too,  Sully.  You  can 
help  me  more  than  any  man  I  know.  I've  been  herding  that 
brown  man  for  a  month  in  the  hotel  so  he  wouldn't  stray 
down  around  Fourteenth  Street  and  get  roped  in  by  that 
crowd  of  refugee  tamale-eaters  down  there.  And  he's  landed, 
and  D.  C.  G.  is  manager  of  General  J.  A.  S.  J.  Rompiro's 
presidential  campaign  in  the  great  republic  of  —  what's  its 
name?' 

"Denver  gets  down  an  atlas  from  a  shelf,  and  we  have  a 
look  at  the  afflicted  country.  'Twas  a  dark  blue  one,  on  the 
west  coast,  about  the  size  of  a  special  delivery  stamp. 

"  'From  what  the  General  tells  me,'  says  Denver,  'and 
from  what  I  can  gather  from  the  encyclopaedia  and  by  con 
versing  with  the  janitor  of  the  Astor  Library,  it'll  be  as  easy 
to  handle  the  vote  of  that  country  as  it  would  be  for  Tarn- 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          249 

many  to  get  a  man  named  Geoghan  appointed  on  the  White 
Wings  force/ 

"  'Why  don't  General  Rumptyro  stay  at  home/  says  I, 
'and  manage  his  own  canvass?' 

"  'You  don't  understand  South  American  politics/  says 
Denver,  getting  out  the  cigars.  'It's  this  way.  General 
Rompiro  had  the  misfortune  of  becoming  a  popular  idol.  He 
distinguished  himself  by  leading  the  army  in  pursuit  of  a 
couple  of  sailors  who  had  stolen  the  plaza  —  or  the  carramba, 
or  something  belonging  to  the  government.  The  people  called 
him  a  hero  and  the  government  got  jealous.  The  president 
sends  for  the  chief  of  the  Department  of  Public  Edifices. 
''Find  me  a  nice,  clean  adobe  wall,"  says  he,  "and  stand 
Seiior  Rompiro  up  against  it.  Then  call  out  a  file  of  soldiers 
and  —  then  let  him  be  up  against  it."  Something/  goes  on 
Denver,  'like  the  way  they've  treated  Hobson  and  Carrie 
Nation  in  our  country.  So  the  General  had  to  flee.  But  he 
was  thoughtful  enough  to  bring  along  his  roll.  He's  got 
sinews  of  war  enough  to  buy  a  battleship  and  float  her  off 
in  the  christening  fluid.'  t 

'  'What  chance  has  he  got  to  be  president  ?' 
''Wasn't  I  just  giving  you  his  rating?'  says  Denver. 
'His  country  is  one  of  the  few  in  South  America  where  the 
presidents  are  elected  by  popular  ballot.  The  General  can't 
go  there  just  now.  It  hurts  to  be  shot  against  a  wall.  He 
needs  a  campaign  manager  to  go  down  and  whoop  things  up 
for  him  —  to  get  the  boys  in  line  and  the  new  two-dollar 
bills  afloat  and  the  babies  kissed  and  the  machine  in  running 
order.  Sully,  I  don't  want  to  brag,  but  you  remember  how 
I  brought  Coughlin  under  the  wire  for  leader  of  the  nine 
teenth?  Ours  was  the  banner  district.  Don't  you  suppose 
I  know  how  to  manage  a  little  monkey-cage  of  a  country  like 
that?  Why,  with  the  dough  the  General's  willing  to  turn 
loose  I  could  put  two  more  coats  of  Japan  varnish  on  him 


250  Roads  of  Destiny 

and  have  him  elected  Governor  of  Georgia.  New  York  has 
got  the  finest  lot  of  campaign  managers  in  the  world,  Sully, 
and  you  give  me  a  feeling  of  hauteur  when  you  cast  doubts  on 
my  ability  to  handle  the  political  situation  in  a  country  so 
small  that  they  have  to  print  the  names  of  the  towns  in  the 
appendix  and  footnotes.' 

"I  argued  wi*h  Denver  some.  I  told  him  that  politics  down 
in  that  tropical  atmosphere  was  bound  to  be  different  from 
the  nineteenth  district;  but  I  might  just  as  well  have  been 
a  Congressman  from  North  Dakota  trying  to  get  an  appro 
priation  for  a  lighthouse  and  a  coast  survey.  Denver  Gallo 
way  had  ambitions  in  the  manager  line,  and  what  I  said 
didn't  amount  to  as  much  as  a  fig-leaf  at  the  National  Dress 
makers'  Convention.  'I'll  give  you  three  days  to  cogitate 
about  going/  says  Denver;  'and  I'll  introduce  you  to  General 
Rompiro  to-morrow,  so  you  can  get  his  ideas  drawn  right 
from  the  rose  wood/ 

"I  put  on  my  best  reception-to-Booker-Washington  manner 
the  next  day  and  tapped  the  distinguished  rubber-plant  for 
what  he  knew. 

"General  Rompiro  wasn't  so  gloomy  inside  as  he  appeared 
on  the  surface.  He  was  polite  enough;  and  he  exuded  a 
number  of  sounds  that  made  a  fair  stagger  at  arranging  them 
selves  into  language.  It  was  English  he  aimed  at,  and  when 
his  system  of  syntax  reached  your  mind  it  wasn't  past  you 
to  understand  it.  If  you  took  a  college  professor's  maga 
zine  essay  and  a  Chinese  laundryman's  explanation  of  a  lost 
shirt  and  jumbled  'em  together,  you'd  have  about  what  the 
General  handed  you  out  for  conversation.  He  told  me  all 
about  his  bleeding  country,  and  what  they  were  trying  to  do 
for  it  before  the  doctor  came.  But  he  mostly  talked  of  Den 
ver  C.  Galloway. 

"  'Ah,  seiior,'  says  he,  'that  is  the  most  fine  of  mans. 
Never  I  have  seen  one  man  so  magnifico,  so  gr-r-rand,  so 


On  Behalf  of   'he  Management          251 

conformable  to  make  done  things  so  swiftly  by  other  mans. 
He  shall  make  other  mans  do  the  acts  and  himself  to  order 
and  regulate,  until  we  arrive  at  seeing  accomplishments  of  a 
suddenly.  Oh,  yes,  senor.  In  my  countree  there  is  not  such 
mans  of  so  beegness,  so  good  talk,  so  compliments,  so  stiung- 
ness  of  sense  and  such.  Ah,  that  Senor  Galloway !' 

"  'Yes/  says  I,  'old  Denver  is  the  boy  you  want.  He's 
managed  every  kind  of  business  here  except  filibustering,  and 
he  might  as  well  complete  the  list.' 

"Before  the  three  days  was  up  I  decided  to  join  Denver 
in  his  campaign.  Denver  got  three  months'  vacation  from 
his  hotel  owners.  For  a,  week  we  lived  in  a  room  with  the 
General,  and  got  all  the  pointers  about  his  country  that  we 
could  interpret  from  the  noises  he  made.  When  we  got  ready 
to  start,  Denvr-  had  a  pocket  full  of  memorandums,  and 
letters  from  the  General  to  his  friends,  and  a  list  of  names 
and  addresses  of  loyal  politicians  who  would  help  along  the 
boom  of  the  exiled  popular  idol.  Besides  these  liabilities  we 
carried  assets  to  the  amount  of  $20,000  in  assorted  United 
States  currency.  General  Rompiro  looked  like  a  burnt  ef 
figy,  but  he  was  Br'er  Fox  himself  when  it  came  to  the  real 
science  of  politics. 

"  'Here  is  moneys,'  says  the  General,  'of  a  small  amount. 
There  is  more  with  me  —  moocho  more.  Plentee  moneys  shall 
you  be  supplied,  Senor  Galloway.  More  I  shall  send  you  at 
all  times  that  you  need.  I  shall  desire  to  pay  feefty  —  one 
hundred  thousand  pesos,  if  necessario,  to  be  elect.  How  no? 
Sacramento!  If  that  I  am  president  and  do  not  make  one 
meelion  dolla  in  the  one  year  you  shall  keek  me  on  that  side! 
—  valgame  Dios!f 

"Denver  got  a  Cuban  cigar-maker  to  fix  up  a  little  cipher 
code  with  English  and  Spanish  words,  and  gave  the  General 
a  copy,  so  we  could  cable  him  bulletins  about  the  election,  or 
for  more  money,  and  then  we  were  ready  to  start.  General 


252  Roads  of  Destiny 

Rompiro  escorted  us  to  the  steamer.  On  the  pier  he  hugged 
Denver  around  the  waist  and  sobbed.  'Noble  mans,'  says 
he,  'General  Rompiro  propels  into  you  his  confidence  and 
trust.  Go,  in  the  hands  of  the  saints  to  do  the  work  for  your 
friend.  Viva  la  libertad!' 

"  'Sure/  says  Denver.  'And  viva  la  liberality  an'  la  soap- 
erino  and  hoch  der  land  of  the  lotus  and  the  vote  us.  Don't 
^orry,  General.  We'll  have  you  elected  as  sure  as  bananas 
grow  upside  down/ 

"  'Make  pictures  on  me/  pleads  the  General  — 'make  pic 
tures  on  me  for  money  as  it  is  needful.' 

"  'Does  he  want  to  be  tattooed,  would  you  think?'  asks 
Denver,  wrinkling  up  his  eyes. 

"  'Stupid !'  says  I.  'He  wants  you  to  draw  on  him  for 
election  expenses.  It'll  be  worse  than  tattooing.  More  like 
ar  autopsy.' 

"Me  and  Denver  steamed  down  to  Panama,  and  then  hiked 
across  the  Isthmus,  and  then  by  steamer  again  down  to  the 
town  of  Espiritu  on  tlie  coast  of  the  General's  country. 

"That  was  a  town  to  send  J.  Howard  Payne  to  the  growler. 
I'll  tell  you  how  you  could  make  one  like  it.  Take  a  lot  of 
Filipino  huts  and  a  couple  of  hundred  brick-kilns  and  arrange 
'em  in  squares  in  a  cemetery.  Cart  down  all  the  conserva 
tory  plants  in  the  Astor  and  Vanderbilt  greenhouses,  and  stick 
*em  about  wherever  there's  room.  Turn  all  the  Bellevue  pa 
tients  and  the  barbers'  convention  and  the  Tuskegee  school 
loose  in  the  streets,  and  run  the  thermometer  up  to  120  in 
the  shade.  Set  a  fringe  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  around  the 
rear,  let  it  rain,  and  set  the  whole  business  on  Rockaway 
Beach  in  the  middle  of  January  —  and  you'd  have  a  good 
imitation  of  Espiritu. 

"It  took  me  and  Denver  about  a  week  to  get  acclimated. 
Denver  sent  out  the  letters  the  General  had  given  him,  and 
notified  the  rest  of  the  gang  that  there  was  something  doing 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          253 

at  the  captain's  office.  We  set  up  headquarters  in  an  old 
'dobe  house  on  a  side  street  where  the  grass  was  waist  high. 
The  election  was  only  four  weeks  off;  but  there  wasn't  any 
excitement.  The  home  candidate  for  president  was  named 
Roadrickeys.  This  town  of  Espiritu  wasn't  the  capital  any 
more  than  Cleveland,  Ohio,  is  the  capital  of  the  United  States, 
but  it  was  the  political  centre  where  they  cooked  up  revolu 
tions,  and  made  up  the  slates. 

"At  the  end  of  the  week  Denver  says  the  machine  is 
started  running. 

"  'Sully/  says  he,  'we've  got  a  walkover.  Just  because 
General  Rompiro  ain't  Don  Juan-on-the-spot  the  other  crowd 
ain't  at  work.  They're  as  full  of  apathy  as  a  territorial  dele 
gate  during  the  chaplain's  prayer.  Now,  we  want  to  in 
troduce  a  little  hot  stuff  in  the  way  of  campaigning,  and  we'll 
surprise  'em  at  the  polls.' 

"  'How  are  you  going  to  go  about  it?'  I  asks. 

"  'Why,  the  usual  way,'  says  Denver,  surprised.  'We'll 
get  the  orators  on  our  side  out  every  night  to  make  speeches 
in  the  native  lingo,  and  have  torch-light  parades  under  the 
shade  of  the  palms,  and  free  drinks,  and  buy  up  all  the  brass 
bands,  of  course,  and  —  well,  I'll  turn  the  baby-kissing  over 
to  you,  Sully  —  I've  seen  a  lot  of  'em/ 

'"What  else?' says  I. 

"  'Why,  you  know/  says  Denver.  'We  get  the  heelers  out 
with  the  crackly  two-spots,  and  coal-tickets,  and  orders  for 
groceries,  and  have  a  couple  of  picnics  out  under  the  banyan- 
trees,  and  dances  in  the  Firemen's  Hall  —  and  the  usual 
things.  But  first  of  all,  Sully,  I'm  going  to  have  the  big 
gest  clam-bake  down  on  the  beach  that  was  ever  seen  south 
of  the  tropic  of  Capricorn.  I  figured  that  out  from  the  start. 
We'll  slnff  the  whole  town  and  the  jungle  folk  for  miles 
around  with  clams.  That's  the  first  thing  on  the  programme. 
Suppose  you  go  out  now,  and  make  the  arrangements  for  that. 


254  Roads  of  Destiny 

I  want  to  look  over  the  estimates  the  General  made  of  the 
vote  in  the  coast  districts.' 

"I  had  learned  some  Spanish  in  Mexico,  so  I  goes  out,  as 
Denver  says,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  I  come  back  to  head 
quarters. 

'  'If  there  ever  was  a  clam  in  this  country  nobody  ever 
saw  it/  I  says. 

'  'Great  sky-rockets !'  says  Denver,  with  his  mouth  and 
eyes  open.  'No  clams?  How  in  the  —  who  ever  saw  a 
country  without  clams  ?  What  kind  of  a  —  how's  an  election 
to  be  pulled  off  without  a  clam-bake,  I'd  like  to  know?  Are 
you  sure  there's  no  clams,  Sully?' 

"  'Not  even  a  can,'  says  I. 

'  'Then  for  God's  sake  go  out  and  try  to  find  out  what  the 
people  here  do  eat.  We've  got  to  fill  'em  up  with  grub  of 
some  kind.' 

"I  went  out  again.  Sully  was  manager.  In  half  an  hour 
I  gets  back. 

'  'They  eat/  says  I,  'tortillas,  cassava,  carne  de  chivo,  ar- 
toz  con  pello,  aquacates,  zapates,  yucca,  and  huevos  fritos.' 

"  'A  man  that  would  eat  them  things,'  says  Denver,  get 
ting  a  little  mad,  'ought  to  have  his  vote  challenged.' 

"In  a  few  more  days  the  campaign  managers  from  the 
other  towns  came  sliding  into  Espiritu.  Our  headquarters  was 
a  busy  place.  We  had  an  interpreter,  and  ice-water,  and 
drinks,  and  cigars,  and  Denver  flashed  the  General's  roll  so 
often  that  it  got  so  small  you  couldn't  have  bought  a  Repub 
lican  vote  in  Ohio  with  it. 

"And  then  Denver  cabled  to  General  Rompiro  for  ten 
thousand  dollars  more  and  got  it. 

"There  were  a  number  of  Americans  in  Espiritu,  but  they 
were  all  in  business  or  grafts  of  some  kind,  and  wouldn't  take 
any  hand  in  politics,  which  was  sensible  enough.  But  they 
showed  me  and  Denver  a  fine  time,  and  fixed  us  up  so  we 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          255 

could  get  decent  things  to  eat  and  drink.  There  was  one 
American,  named  Hicks,  used  to  come  and  loaf  at  the  head 
quarters.  Hicks  had  had  fourteen  years  of  Espiritu.  He 
was  six  feet  four  and  weighed  in  at  135.  Cocoa  was  his 
line;  and  coast  fever  and  the  climate  had  taken  all  the  life 
out  of  him.  They  said  he  hadn't  smiled  in  eight  years.  His 
face  was  three  feet  long,  and  it  never  moved  except  when  he 
opened  it  to  take  quinine.  He  used  to  sit  in  our  headquar 
ters  and  kill  fleas  and  talk  sarcastic. 

"  'I  don't  take  much  interest  in  politics/  says  Hicks,  one 
day,  'but  I'd  like  you  to  tell  me  what  you're  trying  to  do 
down  here,  Galloway?' 

'  'We're  boosting  General  Rompiro,  of  course/  says  Den 
ver.  'We're  going  to  put  him  in  the  presidential  chair.  I'm 
his  manager.' 

"  'Well/  says  Hicks,  'if  I  was  you  I'd  be  a  little  slower 
about  it.     You've  got  a  long  time  ahead  of  you,  you  know/ 
'  'Not  any  longer  than  I  need,'  says  Denver. 

"Denver  went  ahead  and  worked  things  smooth.  He  dealt 
out  money  on  the  quiet  to  his  lieutenants,  and  they  were  always 
coming  after  it.  There  was  free  drinks  for  everybody  in 
town,  and  bands  playing  every  night,  and  fireworks,  and 
'.here  was  a  lot  of  heelers  going  around  buying  up  votes  day 
and  night  for  the  new  style  of  politics  in  Espiritu,  and  every 
body  liked  it. 

"The  day  set  for  the  election  was  November  4th.  On 
the  night  before  Denver  and  me  were  smoking  our  pipes  in 
headquarters,  and  in  comes  Hicks  and  unjoints  himself,  and 
sits  in  a  chair,  mournful.  Denver  is  cheerful  and  confident. 
'Rompiro  will  win  in  a  romp/  says  he.  'We'll  carry  the 
country  by  10,000.  It's  all  over  but  the  vivas.  To-morrow 
will  tell  the  tale.' 

'  'What's  going  to  happen  to-morrow  ?'  asks  Hicks. 

"  'Why,  the  presidential  election,  of  course/  says  Denver. 


256  Roads  of  Destiny 

11  'Say,'  says  Hicks,  looking  kind  of  funny,  'didn't  any 
body  tell  you  fellows  that  the  election  was  held  a  week  be 
fore  you  came?  Congress  changed  the  date  to  July  27th. 
Roadrickeys  was  elected  by  17,000.  I  thought  you  was  boom 
ing  old  Rompiro  for  next  term,  two  years  from  now.  Won 
dered  if  you  was  going  to  keep  up  such  a  hot  lick  that  long.' 

"I  dropped  my  pipe  on  the  floor.  Denver  bit  the  stem  off 
of  his.  Neither  of  us  said  anything. 

"And  then  I  heard  a  sound  like  somebody  ripping  a  clap 
board  off  of  a  barn-roof.  'Twas  Hicks  laughing  for  the 
first  time  in  eight  years." 

Sully  Magoon  paused  while  the  waiter  poured  us  black  cof 
fee. 

"Your  friend  was,  indeed,  something  of  a  manager,"  I 
said. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Sully,  "I  haven't  given  you  any 
idea  of  what  he  could  do  yet.  That's  all  to  come. 

"When  we  got  back  to  New  York  there  was  General  Rom 
piro  waiting  for  us  on  the  pier.  He  was  dancing  like  a 
cinnamon  bear,  all  impatient  for  the  news,  for  Denver  had 
just  cabled  him  when  we  would  arrive  and  nothing  more. 

"  'Am  I  elect  ?'  he  shouts.  'Am  I  elect,  friend  of  mine  ? 
Is  it  that  mine  country  have  demand  General  Rompiro  for 
the  president?  The  last  dollar  of  mine  have  I  sent  you  that 
last  time.  It  is  necessario  that  I  am  elect.  I  have  not  more 
money.  Am  I  elect,  Senor  Galloway  ?' 

"Denver  turns  to  me. 

"  'Leave  me  with  old  Rompey,  Sully/  he  says.  'I've  got 
to  break  it  to  him  gently.  'Twould  be  indecent  for  other 
eyes  to  witness  the  operation.  This  is  the  time,  Sully,'  says 
he,  'when  old  Denver  has  got  to  make  good  as  a  jollier  and  a 
silver-tongued  sorcerer,  or  else  give  up  all  the  medals  he's 
earned.' 

"A  couple  of  days  later  I  went  around  to  the  hotel.     There 


On  Behalf  of  the  Management          257 

was  Denver  in  his  old  place,  looking  like  the  hero  of  two 
historical  novels,  and  telling  'em  what  a  fine  time  he'd  had 
down  on  his  orange  plantation  in  Florida. 

"  'Did  you  fix  things  up  with  the  General  ?'  I  asks  him. 

"  'Did  I  ?'  says  Denver.     'Come  and  see/ 

"He  takes  me  by  the  arm  and  walks  me  to  the  dining-room 
door.  There  was  a  little  chocolate-brown  fat  man  in  a  dress 
suit,  with  his  face  shining  with  joy  as  he  swelled  himself  and 
skipped  about  the  floor.  Danged  if  Denver  hadn't  made 
General  Rompiro  head  waiter  of  the  Hotel  Brunswick !" 

"Is  Mr.  'Galloway  still  in  the  managing  business?"  I 
asked,  as  Mr.  Magoon  ceased. 

Sully  shook  his  head. 

"Denver  married  an  auburn-haired  widow  that  owns  a  big 
hotel  in  Harlem.  He  just  helps  around  the  place." 


XIX 
WHISTLING  DICK'S  CHRISTMAS  STOCKING 

IT  was  with  much  caution  that  Whistling  Dick  slid  back  the 
door  of  the  box-car,  for  Article  5716,  City  Ordinances,  au 
thorized  (perhaps  unconstitutionally)  arrest  on  suspicion,  and 
he  was  familiar  of  old  with  this  ordinance.  So,  before  climb 
ing  out,  he  surveyed  the  field  with  all  the  care  of  a  good 
general. 

He  saw  no  change  since  his  last  visit  to  this  big,  alms 
giving,  long-suffering  city  of  the  South,  the  cold  weather  para 
dise  of  the  tramps.  The  levee  where  his  freight-car  stood  was 
pimpled  with  dark  bulks  of  merchandise.  The  breeze  reeked 
with  the  well-remembered,  sickening  smell  of  the  old  tar 
paulins  that  covered  bales  and  barrels.  The  dun  river  slipped 
along  among  the  shipping  with  an  oily  gurgle.  Far  down 
toward  Chalmette  he  could  see  the  great  bend  in  the  stream, 
outlined  by  the  row  of  electric  lights.  Across  the  river  Algiers 
lay,  a  long,  irregular  blot,  made  darker  by  the  dawn  which 
lightened  the  sky  beyond.  An  industrious  tug  or  two,  com 
ing  for  some  early  sailing  ship,  gave  a  few  appalling  toots, 
that  seemed  to  be  the  signal  for  breaking  day.  The  Italian 
lugrers  were  creeping  nearer  their  landing,  laden  with  early 
vegetables  and  shellfish.  A  vague  roar,  subterranean  in  qual 
ity,  from  dray  wheels  and  street  cars,  began  to  make  itself 
heard  and  felt;  and  the  ferryboats,  the  Mary  Anns  of  water 
craft,  stirred  sullenly  to  their  menial  morning  tasks. 

Whistling  Dick's  red  head  popped  suddenly  back  into  the 
car.  A  sight  too  imposing  and  magnificent  for  his  gaze  had 

258 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     259 

been  added  to  the  scene.  A  vast,  incomparable  policeman 
rounded  a  pile  of  rice  sacks  and  stood  within  twenty  yards 
of  the  car.  The  daily  miracle  of  the  dawn,  now  being  per 
formed  above  Algiers,  received  the  flattering  attention  of  this 
specimen  of  municipal  official  splendour.  He  gazed  with  un 
biased  dignity  at  the  faintly  glowing  colours  until,  at  last, 
he  turned  to  them  his  broad  back,  as  if  convinced  that  legal 
interference  was  not  needed,  and  the  sunrise  might  proceed 
unchecked.  So  he  turned  his  face  to  the  rice  bags,  and,  draw 
ing  a  flat  flask  from  an  inside  pocket,  he  placed  it  to  his 
lips  and  regarded  the  firmament. 

Whistling  Dick,  professional  tramp,  possessed  a  half- 
friendly  acquaintance  with  this  officer.  They  had  met  several 
times  before  on  the  levee  at  night,  for  the  officer,  himself  a 
lover  of  music,  had  been  attracted  by  the  exquisite  whistling 
of  the  shiftless  vagabond.  Still,  he  did  not  care,  under  the 
present  circumstances,  to  renew  the  acquaintance.  There  is 
a  difference  between  meeting  a  policeman  upon  a  lonely  wharf 
and  whistling  a  few  operatic  aira  with  him,  and  being  caught 
by  him  crawling  out  of  a  freight-car.  So  Dick  waited,  as 
even  a  New  Orleans  policeman  must  move  on  some  time  — 
perhaps  it  is  a  retributive  law  of  nature  —  and  before  long 
"Big  Fritz"  majestically  disappeared  between  the  trains  of 
cars. 

Whistling  Dick  waited  as  long  as  his  judgment  advised, 
and  then  slid  swiftly  to  the  ground.  Assuming  as  far  as 
possible  the  air  of  an  honest  labourer  who  seeks  his  daily 
toil,  he  moved  across  the  network  of  railway  lines,  with  the 
intention  of  making  his  way  by  quiet  Girod  Street  to  a  certain 
bench  in  Lafayette  Square,  where,  according  to  appointment, 
he  hoped  to  rejoin  a  pal  known  as  "Slick,"  this  adventurous 
pilgrim  having  preceded  him  by  one  day  in  a  cattle-car  into 
which  a  loose  slat  had  enticed  him. 

As  Wrhistling  Dick  picked  his  way  where  night  still  lingered 


260  Roads  of  Destiny 

among  the  big,  reeking,  musty  warehouses,  he  gave  way  to 
the  habit  that  had  won  for  him  his  title.  Subdued,  yet  clear, 
with  each  note  as  true  and  liquid  as  a  bobolink's,  his  whistle 
tinkled  about  the  dim,  cold  mountains  of  brick  like  drops  of 
rain  falling  into  a  hidden  pool.  He  followed  an  air,  but  it 
swam  mistily  into  a  swirling  current  of  improvisation.  You 
could  cull  out  the  trill  of  mountain  brooks,  the  staccato  of 
green  rushes  shivering  above  chilly  lagoons,  the  pipe  of  sleepy 
birds. 

Rounding  a  corner,  the  whistler  collided  with  a  mountain 
of  blue  and  brass. 

"So,"  observed  the  mountain  calmly,  "you  are  already 
pack.  Und  dere  vill  not  pe  frost  before  two  veeks  yet! 
Und  you  haf  forgotten  how  to  vistle.  Dere  was  a  valse  note 
in  dot  last  bar." 

"Watcher  know  about  it?"  said  Whistling  Dick,  with  ten 
tative  familiarity;  "you  wit  yer  little  Gherman-band  nix- 
cumrous  chunes.  Watcher  know  about  music  ?  Pick  yer  ears, 
and  listen  agin.  Here's  de  way  I  whistled  it  —  see?" 

He  puckered  his  lips,  but  the  big  policeman  held  up  his 
hand. 

"Shtop,"  he  said,  "und  learn  der  right  way.  Und  learn 
also  dot  a  rolling  shtone  can't  vistle  for  a  cent." 

Big  Fritz's  heavy  moustache  rounded  into  a  circle,  and 
from  its  depths  came  a  sound  deep  and  mellow  as  that  from 
a  flute.  He  repeated  a  few  bars  of  the  air  the  tramp  had 
been  whistling.  The  rendition  was  cold,  but  correct,  and  he 
emphasized  the  note  he  had  taken  exception  to. 

"Dot  p  is  p  natural,  und  not  p  vlat.  Py  der  vay,  you 
petter  pe  glad  I  meet  you.  Von  hour  later,  und  I  vould  half 
to  put  you  in  a  gage  to  vistle  mit  der  chail  pirds.  Der  or 
ders  are  to  bull  all  der  pums  after  sunrise." 

"To  which?" 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     261 

"To  bull  der  pums  —  eferybody  mitout  fisible  means. 
Dirty  days  is  der  price,  or  fifteen  tollars." 

"Is  dat  straight,  or  a  game  you  givin'  me?" 

"It'.s  der  pest  tip  you  efer  had.  I  gif  it  to  you  pecause  I 
pelief  you  are  not  so  bad  as  der  rest.  Und  pecause  you  gan 
visl  'Der  Freischiitz'  bezzer  dan  I  myself  gan.  Don't  run 
against  any  more  bolicemans  aroundt  der  corners,  but  go 
away  from  town  a  few  tays.  Goot-pye." 

So  Madame  Orleans  had  at  last  grown  weary  of  the  strange 
and  ruffled  brood  that  came  yearly  to  nestle  beneath  her  charit 
able  pinions. 

After  the  big  policeman  had  departed,  Whistling  Dick 
stood  for  an  irresolute  minute,  feeling  all  the  outraged  in 
dignation  of  a  delinquent  tenant  who  is  ordered  to  vacate  his 
premises.  He  had  pictured  to  himself  a  day  of  dreamful 
ease  when  he  should  have  joined  his  pal;  a  day  of  lounging 
on  the  wharf,  munching  the  bananas  and  cocoanuts  scattered 
in  unloading  the  fruit  steamers;  and  then  a  feast  along  the 
free-lunch  counters  from  which  the  easy-going  owners  were 
too  good-natured  or  too  generous  to  drive  him  away,  and 
afterward  a  pipe  in  one  of  the  little  flowery  parks  and  a 
snooze  in  some  shady  corner  of  the  wharf.  But  here  was  a 
stern  order  to  exile,  and  one  that  he  knew  must  be  obeyed. 
So,  with  a  wary  eye  open  for  the  gleam  of  brass  buttons, 
he  began  his  retreat  toward  a  rural  refuge.  A  few  days  in 
the  country  need  not  necessarily  prove  disastrous.  Beyond 
the  possibility  of  a  slight  nip  of  frost,  there  was  no  formidable 
evil  to  be  looked  for. 

However,  it  was  with  a  depressed  spirit  that  Whistling 
Dick  passed  the  old  French  market  on  his  chosen  route  down 
the  river.  For  safety's  sake  he  still  presented  to  the  world 
his  portrayal  of  the  part  of  the  worthy  artisan  on  his  way 
to  labour.  A  stall-keeper  in  the  market,  undeceived,  hailed 


262  Roads  of  Destiny 

him  by  the  generic  name  of  his  ilk,  and  "Jack"  halted,  taken 
by  surprise.  The  vendor,  melted  by  this  proof  of  his  owjs* 
acuteness,  bestowed  a  foot  of  Frankfurter  and  half  a  loaf, 
and  thus  the  problem  of  breakfast  was  solved. 

When  the  streets,  from  topographical  reasons,  began  to 
shun  the  river  bank  the  exile  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  levee, 
and  on  its  well-trodden  path  pursued  his  way.  The  suburban 
eye  regarded  him  with  cold  suspicion,  individuals  reflected 
the  stern  spirit  of  the  city's  heartless  edict.  He  missed  the 
seclusion  of  the  crowded  town  and  the  safety  he  could  al 
ways  find  in  the  multitude. 

At  Chalmette,  six  miles  upon  his  desultory  way.  there  sud 
denly  menaced  him  a  vast  and  bewildering  industry.  A  new 
port  was  being  established;  the  dock  was  being  built,  com 
presses  were  going  up;  picks  and  shovels  and  barrows  struck 
at  him  like  serpents  from  every  side.  An  arrogant  foreman 
bore  down  upon  him,  estimating  his  muscles  with  the  eye  of 
a  recruiting-sergeant.  Brown  men  and  black  men  all  about 
him  were  toiling  away.  He  fled  in  terror. 

By  noon  he  had  reached  the  country  of  the  plantations, 
the  great,  sad,  silent  levels  bordering  the  mighty  river.  He 
overlooked  fields  of  sugar-cane  so  vast  that  their  farthest 
limits  melted  into  the  sky.  The  sugar-making  season  was 
well  advanced,  and  the  cutters  were  at  work;  the  waggons 
creaked  drearily  after  them;  the  Negro  teamsters  inspired  the 
mules  to  greater  speed  with  mellow  and  sonorous  imprecations. 
Dark-green  groves,  blurred  by  the  blue  of  distance,  showed 
where  the  plantation-houses  stood.  The  tall  chimneys  of  the 
sugar-mills  caught  the  eye  miles  distant,  like  lighthouses  at 
sea. 

At  a  certain  point  Whistling  Dick's  unerring  nose  caught 
the  scent  of  frying  fish.  Like  a  pointer  to  a  quail,  he  made 
his  way  down  the  levee  side  straight  to  the  camp  of  a  credu 
lous  and  ancient  fisherman,  whom  he  charmed  with  song  and 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     263 

story,  so  that  he  dined  like  an  admiral,  and  then  like  a  phi 
losopher  annihilated  the  worst  three  hours  of  the  day  by  a 
:Aap  under  the  trees. 

When  he  awoke  and  again  continued  his  hegira,  a  frosty 
sparkle  in  the  air  had  succeeded  the  drowsy  warmth  of  the 
day,  and  as  this  portent  of  a  chilly  night  translated  itself 
to  the  brain  of  Sir  Peregrine,  he  lengthened  his  stride  and 
bethought  him  of  shelter.  He  travelled  a  road  that  faith 
fully  followed  the  convolutions  of  the  levee,  running  along 
its  base,  but  whither  he  knew  not.  Bushes  and  rank  grass 
crowded  it  to  the  wheel  ruts,  and  out  of  this  ambuscade  the 
pests  of  the  lowlands  swarmed  after  him,  humming  a  keen, 
vicious  soprano.  And  as  the  night  grew  nearer,  although 
colder,  the  whine  of  the  mosquitoes  became  a  greedy,  petu 
lant  snarl  that  shut  out  all  other  sounds.  To  his  right,  against 
the  heavens,  he  saw  a  green  light  moving,  and,  accompanying 
it,  the  masts  and  funnels  of  a  big  incoming  steamer,  moving 
as  upon  a  screen  at  a  magic-lantern  show.  And  there  were 
mysterious  marshes  at  his  left,  out  of  which  came  queer  gur 
gling  cries  and  a  choked  croaking.  The  whistling  vagrant 
struck  up  a  merry  warble  to  offset  these  melancholy  influences, 
and  it  is  likely  that  never  before,  since  Pan  himself  jigged 
it  on  his  reeds,  had  such  sounds  been  heard  in  those  depressing 
solitudes. 

A  distant  clatter  in  the  rear  quickly  developed  into  the 
swift  beat  of  horses'  hoofs,  and  Whistling  Dick  stepped 
aside  into  the  dew-wet  grass  to  clear  the  track.  Turning 
his  head,  he  saw  approaching  a  fine  team  of  stylish  grays 
drawing  a  double  surrey.  A  stout  man  with  a  white  mous 
tache  occupied  the  front  seat,  giving  all  his  attention  to  the 
rigid  lines  in  his  hands.  Behind  him  sat  a  placid,  middle- 
aged  lady  and  a  brilliant-looking  girl  hardly  arrived  at  young 
ladyhood.  The  lap-robe  had  slipped  partly  from  the  knees 
of  the  gentleman  driving,  and  Whistling  Dick  saw  two  stout 


264  Roads  of  Destiny 

canvas  bags  between  his  feet  —  bags  such  as,  while  loafing 
in  cities,  he  had  seen  warily  transferred  between  express  wag 
gons  and  bank  doors.  The  remaining  space  in  the  vehicle 
was  filled  with  parcels  of  various  sizes  and  shapes. 

As  the  surrey  swept  even  with  the  sidetracked  tramp,  the 
bright-eyed  girl,  seized  by  some  merry,  madcap  impulse, 
leaned  out  toward  him  with  a  sweet,  dazzling  smile,  and 
cried,  "Mer-ry  Christ-mas !"  in  a  shrill,  plaintive  treble. 

Such  a  thing  had  not  often  happened  to  Whistling  Dick, 
and  he  felt  handicapped  in  devising  the  correct  response. 
But  lacking  time  for  reflection,  he  let  his  instinct  decide, 
and  snatching  off  his  battered  derby,  he  rapidly  extended  it 
at  arm's  length,  and  drew  it  back  with  a  continuous  motion, 
and  shouted  a  loud,  but  ceremonious,  ^Ah,  there !"  after  the 
flying  surrey. 

The  sudden  movement  of  the  girl  had  caused  one  of  the 
parcels  to  become  unwrapped,  and  something  limp  and  black 
fell  from  it  into  the  road.  The  tramp  picked  it  up.  and 
found  it  to  be  a  new  black  silk  stocking,  long  and  fine  and 
slender.  It  crunched  crisply,  and  yet  with  a  luxurious  soft 
ness,  between  his  fingers. 

"Ther  bloomin'  little  skeezicks!"  said  Whistling  Dick, 
with  a  broad  grin  bisecting  his  freckled  face.  "W'ot  d'  yer 
think  of  dat,  now !  Mer-ry  Chris-mus !  Sounded  like  a 
cuckoo  clock,  dat's  what  she  did.  Dem  guys  is  swells,  too, 
bet  yer  life,  an'  der  old  'un  stacks  dem  sacks  of  dough  down 
under  his  trotters  like  dey  was  common  as  dried  apples. 
Been  shoppin'  fer  Chrismus,  and  de  kid's  lost  one  of  her 
new  socks  w'ot  she  was  goin'  to  hold  up  Santy  wid.  De 
bloomin'  little  skeezicks!  Wit'  her  'Mer-ry  Chris-mus!' 
W'ot  d'  yer  t'ink!  Same  as  to  say,  'Hello,  Jack,  how  goes 
it?'  and  as  swell  as  Fift'  Av'noo,  and  as  easy  as  a  blowout 
in  Cincinnat." 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     265 

Whistling  Dick  folded  the  stocking  carefully,  and  stuffed 
it  into  his  pocket. 

It  was  nearly  two  hours  later  when  he  came  upon  signs  of 
habitation.  The  buildings  of  an  extensive  plantation  were 
brought  into  view  by  a  turn  in  the  road.  He  easily  selected 
the  planter's  residence  in  a  large  square  building  with  two 
wings,  with  numerous  good-sized,  well-lighted  windows,  and 
broad  verandas  running  around  its  full  extent.  It  was  se-t 
upon  a  smooth  lawn,  which  was  faintly  lit  by  the  far-reach- 
,ing  rays  of  the  lamps  within.  A  noble  grove  surrounded  it, 
and  old-fashioned  shrubbery  grew  thickly  about  the  walks  and 
fences.  The  quarters  of  the  hands  and  the  mill  buildings 
were  situated  at  a  distance  in  the  rear. 

The  road  was  now  enclosed  on  each  side  by  a  fence,  and 
presently,  as  Whistling  Dick  drew  nearer  the  houses,  he  sud 
denly  stopped  and  sniffed  the  air. 

"If  dere  ain't  a  hobo  stew  cookin'  somewhere  in  dis  im 
mediate  precinct,"  he  said  to  himself,  "me  nose  has  quit 
tellin*  de  truf." 

Without  hesitation  he  climbed  the  fence  to  windward.  He 
found  himself  in  an  apparently  disused  lot,  where  piles  of 
old  bricks  were  stacked,  and  rejected,  decaying  lumber.  In 
a  corner  he  saw  the  faint  glow  of  a  fire  that  had  become 
little  more  than  a  bed  of  living  coals,  and  he  thought  he  could 
see  some  dim  human  forms  sitting  or  lying  about  it.  He  drew 
nearer,  and  by  the  light  of  a  little  blaze  that  suddenly  flared 
up  he  saw  plainly  the  fat  figure  of  a  ragged  man  in  an  old 
brown  sweater  and  cap. 

"Dat  man,"  said  Whistling  Dick  to  himself  softly,  "is  a 
dead  ringer  for  Boston  Harry.  I'll  try  him  wit  de  high 
sign." 

He  whistled  one  or  two  bars  of  a  rag-time  melody,  and  the 
air  was  immediately  taken  up,  and  then  quickly  ended  with 


266  Roads  of  Destiny 

a  peculiar  run.  The  first  whistler  walked  confidently  up  to 
the  fire.  The  fat  man  looked  up,  and  spake  in  a  loud,  asth 
matic  wheeze: 

"Gents,  the  unexpected  but  welcome  addition  to  our  circle 
is  Mr.  Whistling  Dick,  an  old  friend  of  mine  for  whom  I 
fully  vouches.  The  waiter  will  lay  another  cover  at  once. 
Mr.  W.  D.  will  join  us  at  supper,  during  which  function  he 
will  enlighten  us  in  regard  to  the  circumstances  that  give  us 
the  pleasure  of  his  company/' 

"Chewin'  de  stufFm'  ou  'n  de  dictionary,  as  usual,  Bos 
ton,"  said  Whistling  Dick;  "but  t'anks  all  de  same  for  de 
invitashum.  I  guess  I  finds  meself  here  about  de  same  way 
as  yous  guys.  A  cop  gimme  de  tip  dis  mornin'.  Yous  work- 
in'  on  dis  farm?" 

"A  guest,"  said  Boston  sternly,  "shouldn't  never  insult  his 
entertainers  until  he's  filled  up  wid  grub.  'Tain't  good  busi 
ness  sense.  Workin' !  —  but  I  will  restrain  myself.  We  five 
—  me.  Deaf  Pete,  Blinky,  Goggles,  and  Indiana  Tom  —  got 
put  on  to  this  scheme  of  Noo  Orleans  to  work  visiting  gen 
tlemen  upon  her  dirty  streets,  and  we  hit  the  road  last  evening 
just  as  the  tender  hues  of  twilight  had  flopped  down  upon 
the  daisies  and  things.  Blinky,  pass  the  empty  oyster-can 
at  your  left  to  the  empty  gentleman  at  your  right." 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  the  gang  of  roadsters  paid  their 
undivided  attention  to  the  supper.  In  an  old  five-gallon  kero 
sene  can  they  had  cooked  a  stew  of  potatoes,  meat,  and  onions, 
which  they  partook  of  from  smaller  cans  they  had  found 
scattered  about  the  vacant  lot. 

Whistling  Dick  had  known  Boston  Harry  of  old,  and  knew 
him  to  be  one  of  the  shrewdest  and  most  successful  of  his 
brotherhood.  He  looked  like  a  prosperous  stock-drover  or 
a  solid  merchant  from  some  country  village.  He  was  stout 
and  hale,  with  a  ruddy,  always  smoothly  shaven  face.  His 
clothes  were  strong  and  neat,  and  he  gave  special  attention 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     267 

to  his  decent-appearing  shoes.  During  the  past  ten  years 
he  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  working  a  larger  number 
of  successfully  managed  confidence  games  than  any  of  his 
acquaintances,  and  he  had  not  a  day's  work  to  be  counted 
against  him.  It  was  rumoured  among  his  associates  that  he 
had  saved  a  considerable  amount  of  money.  The  four  other 
men  were  fair  specimens  of  the  slinking,  ill-clad,  noisome 
genus  who  carried  their  labels  of  "suspicious"  in  plain  view. 

After  the  bottom  of  the  large  can  had  been  scraped,  and 
pipes  lit  at  the  coals,  two  of  the  men  called  Boston  aside  and 
spake  with  him  lowly  and  mysteriously.  He  nodded  de 
cisively,  and  then  said  aloud  to  Whistling  Dick: 

"Listen,  sonny,  to  some  plain  talky-talk.  We  five  are 
on  a  lay.  I've  guaranteed  you  to  be  square,  and  you're  to 
come  in  on  the  profits  equal  with  the  boys,  and  you've  got 
to  help.  Two  hundred  hands  on  this  plantation  are  expecting 
to  be  paid  a  week's  wages  to-morrow  morning.  To-morrow's 
Christmas,  and  they  want  to  lay  off.  Says  the  boss:  'Work 
from  five  to  nine  in  the  morning  to  get  a  train  load  of  sugar 
off,  and  I'll  pay  every  man  cash  down  for  the  week  and  a 
day  citra.'  They  say:  'Hooray  for  the  boss!  It  goes.'  He 
drives  to  Noo  Orleans  to-day,  and  fetches  back  the  cold  dol 
lars.  Two  thousand  and  seventy-four  fifty  is  the  amount. 
I  got  the  figures  from  a  man  who  talks  too  much,  who  got 
'em  from  the  bookkeeper.  The  boss  of  this  plantation  thinks 
he's  going  to  pay  this  wealth  to  the  hands.  He's  got  it  down 
wrong;  he's  going  to  pay  it  to  us.  It's  going  to  stay  in  the 
leisure  class,  where  it  belongs.  Now,  half  of  this  haul  goes 
to  me,  and  the  other  half  the  rest  of  you  may  divide.  Why 
the  difference?  I  represent  the  brains.  It's  my  scheme. 
Here's  the  way  we're  going  to  get  it.  There's  some  com 
pany  at  supper  in  the  house,  but  they'll  leave  about  nine. 
They've  just  happened  in  for  an  hour  or  so.  If  they  don't 
go  pretty  soon,  we'll  work  the  scheme  anyhow.  We  want  all 


268  Roads  of  Destiny 

night  to  get  away  good  with  the  dollars.  They're  heavy. 
About  nine  o'clock  Deaf  Pete  and  Blinky'll  go  down  the  road 
about  c.  quarter  beyond  the  house,  and  set  fire  to  a  big  cane- 
field  there  that  the  cutters  haven't  touched  yet.  The  wind's 
just  right  to  have  it  roaring  in  two  minutes.  The  alarm'll 
be  given,  and  every  man  Jack  about  the  place  will  be  down 
there  in  ten  minutes,  fighting  fire.  That'll  leave  the  money 
sacks  and  the  women  alone  in  the  house  for  us  to  handle. 
You've  heard  cane  burn?  Well,  there's  mighty  few  women 
can  screech  loud  enough  to  be  heard  above  its  crackling.  The 
thing's  dead  safe.  The  only  danger  is  in  being  caught  be 
fore  we  can  get  far  enough  away  with  the  money.  Now,  if 
you  —  " 

"Boston,"  interrupted  Whistling  Dick,  rising  to  his  feet, 
"t'anks  for  de  grub  yous  fellers  has  given  me,  but  I'll  be 
movin'  on  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Boston,  also  rising. 

"W'y,  you  can  count  me  outer  dis  deal.  You  oughter  know 
that.  I'm  on  de  bum  all  right  enough,  but  dat  other  t'ing 
don't  go  wit'  me.  Burglary  is  no  good.  I'll  say  good  night 
and  many  t'anks  fer  —  " 

Whistling  Dick  had  moved  away  a  few  steps  as  he  spoke, 
but  he  stopped  very  suddenly.  Boston  had  covered  him  with 
a  short  revolver  of  roomy  calibre. 

"Take  your  seat,"  said  the  tramp  leader.  "I'd  feel  mighty 
proud  of  myself  if  I  let  you  go  and  spoil  the  game.  You'll 
stick  right  in  this  camp  until  we  finish  the  job.  The  end 
of  that  brick  pile  is  your  limit.  You  go  two  inches  beyond 
that,  and  I'll  have  to  shoot.  Better  take  it  easy,  now." 

"It's  my  way  of  doin',"  said  Whistling  Dick.  "Easy  goes. 
You  can  depress  de  muzzle  of  dat  twelve-incher,  and  run  'em 
back  on  de  trucks.  I  remains,  as  de  newspapers  says,  'in 
yer  midst.'  " 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     269 

"All  right/'  said  Boston,  lowering  his  piece,  as  the  other 
returned  and  took  his  seat  again  on  a  projecting  plank  in  a 
pile  of  timber.  "Don't  try  to  leave;  that's  all.  I  wouldn't 
miss  this  chance  even  if  I  had  to  shoot  an  old  acquaintance  to 
make  it  go.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody  specially,  but  this 
thousand  dollars  I'm  going  to  get  will  fix  me  for  fair.  I'm 
going  to  drop  the  road,  and  start  a  saloon  in  a  little  town  I 
know  about.  I'm  tired  of  being  kicked  around." 

Boston  Harry  took  from  his  pocket  a  cheap  silver  watch, 
and  held  it  near  the  fire. 

"It's  a  quarter  to  nine,"  he  said.  "Pete,  you  and  Blinky 
start.  Go  down  the  road  past  the  house,  and  fire  the  cane 
in  a  dozen  places.  Then  strike  for  the  levee,  and  come  back 
on  it,  instead  of  the  road,  so  you  won't  meet  anybody.  By 
the  time  you  get  back  the  men  will  all  be  striking  out  for  the 
fire,  and  we'll  break  for  the  house  and  collar  the  dollars. 
Everybody  cough  up  what  matches  he's  got." 

The  two  surly  tramps  made  a  collection  of  all  the  matches 
in  the  party,  Whistling  Dick  contributing  his  quota  with 
propitiatory  alacrity,  and  then  they  departed  in  the  dim  star 
light  in  the  direction  of  the  road. 

Of  the  three  remaining  vagrants,  two,  Goggles  and  In 
diana  Tom,  reclined  lazily  upon  convenient  lumber  and  re 
garded  Whistling  Dick  with  undisguised  disfavour.  Boston, 
observing  that  the  dissenting  recruit  was  disposed  to  remain 
peaceably,  relaxed  a  little  of  his  vigilance.  Whistling  Dick 
arose  presently  and  strolled  leisurely  up  and  down  keeping 
carefully  within  the  territory  assigned  him. 

"Dis  planter  chap,"  he  said,  pausing  before  Boston  Harry, 
"w'ot  makes  yer  t'ink  he's  got  de  tin  in  de  house  wit'  'im?" 

"I'm  advised  of  the  facts  in  the  case,"  said  Boston.  "He 
drove  to  Noo  Orleans  and  got  it,  I  say,  to-day.  Want  to 
change  your  mind  now  and  come  in?" 


270  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Naw,  I  was  just  askin'.  Wot  kind  o'  team  did  de  boss 
drive?" 

"Pair  of  grays/' 

"Double  surrey?" 

"Yep." 

"Women  folks  along?" 

"Wife  and  kid.  Say,  what  morning  paper  are  you  trying 
to  pump  news  for?" 

"I  was  just  conversin'  to  pass  de  time  away.  I  guess 
dat  team  passed  me  in  de  road  dis  evenin'.  Dat's  all." 

As  Whistling  Dick  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  con 
tinued  his  curtailed  beat  up  and  down  by  the  fire,  he  felt  the 
silk  stocking  he  had  picked  up  in  the  road. 

"Ther  bloomin'  little  skeezicks,"  he  muttered,  with  a  grin. 

As  he  walked  up  and  down  he  could  see,  through  a  sort 
of  natural  opening  or  lane  among  the  trees,  the  planter's 
residence  some  seventy-five  yards  distant.  The  side  of  the 
house  toward  him  exhibited  spacious,  well-lighted  windows 
through  which  a  soft  radiance  streamed,  illuminating  the  broad 
veranda  and  some  extent  of  the  lawn  beneath. 

"What's  that  you  said?"  asked  Boston,  sharply. 

'  Oh,  nuttin'  't  all,"  said  Whistling  Dick,  lounging  care 
lessly,  and  kicking  meditatively  at  a  little  stone  on  the  ground. 

"Just  as  easy,"  continued  the  warbling  vagrant  softly  to 
himself,  "an'  sociable  an'  swell  an'  sassy,  wit'  her  'Mer-ry 
Chris-mus,'  Wot  d'yer  t'ink,  now!" 

Dinner,  two  hours  late,  was  being  served  in  the  Bellemeade 
plantation  dining-room. 

The  dining-room  and  all  its  appurtenances  spoke  of  an  old 
regime  that  was  here  continued  rather  than  suggested  to  the 
memory.  The  plate  was  rich  to  the  extent  that  its  age  and 
quaintness  alone  saved  it  from  being  showy;  there  were  in 
teresting  names  signed  in  the  corners  of  the  pictures  on  the 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking     271 

walls;  the  viands  were  of  the  kind  that  bring  a  shine  into 
the  eyes  of  gourmets.  The  service  was  swift,  silent,  lavish, 
as  in  the  days  when  the  waiters  were  assets  like  the  plate. 
The  names  by  which  the  planter's  family  and  their  visitors 
addressed  one  another  were  historic  in  the  annals  of  two  na 
tions.  Their  manners  and  conversation  had  that  most  dif 
ficult  kind  of  ease  —  the  kind  that  still  preserves  punctilio. 
The  planter  himself  seemed  to  be  the  dynamo  that  generated 
the  larger  portion  of  the  gaiety  and  wit.  The  younger  ones 
at  the  board  found  it  more  than  difficult  to  turn  back  on 
him  his  guns  of  raillery  and  banter.  It  is  true^  the  young 
men  attempted  to  storm  his  works  repeatedly,  incited  by  the 
hope  of  gaining  the  approbation  of  their  fair  companions; 
but  even  when  they  sped  a  well-aimed  shaft,  the  planter 
forced  them  to  feel  defeat  by  the  tremendous  discomfiting 
thunder  of  the  laughter  with  which  he  accompanied  his  re 
torts.  At  the  head  of  the  table,  serene,  matronly^  benevolent, 
reigned  the  mistress  of  the  house,  placing  here  and  there  the 
right  smile,  the  right  word,  the  encouraging  glance. 

The  talk  of  the  party  was  too  desultory,  too  evanescent  to 
follow,  but  at  last  they  came  to  the  subject  of  the  tramp 
nuisance,  one  that  had  of  late  vexed  the  plantations  for  many 
miles  around.  The  planter  seized  the  occasion  to  direct  his 
good-natured  fire  of  raillery  at  the  mistress,  accusing  her  of 
encouraging  the  plague.  "They  swarm  up  and  down  the 
river  every  winter,"  he  said.  "They  overrun  New  Orleans, 
and  we  catch  the  surplus,  which  is  generally  the  worst  part. 
And,  a  day  or  two  ago,  Madame  New  Orleans,  suddenly  dis 
covering  that  she  can't  go  shopping  without  brushing  her 
skirts  against  great  rows  of  the  vagabonds  sunning  them 
selves  on  the  banquettes,  says  to  the  police:  'Catch  'em  all,' 
and  the  police  catch  a  dozen  or  two,  and  the  remaining  three 
or  four  thousand  overflow  up  and  down  the  levees,  and  ma- 
dame  there"  —  pointing  tragically  with  the  carving-knife  at 


272  Roads  of  Destiny 

her —  "feeds  them.  They  won't  work;  they  defy  my  over 
seers,  and  they  make  friends  with  my  dogs ;  and  you,  madame, 
feed  them  before  my  eyes,,  and  intimidate  me  when  I  would  in 
terfere.  Tell  us,  please,  how  many  to-day  did  you  thus  incite 
to  future  laziness  and  depredation?" 

"Six,  I  think,"  said  madame,  with  a  reflective  smile;  "but 
you  know  two  of  them  offered  to  work,  for  you  heard  them 
yourself." 

The  planter's  disconcerting  laugh  rang  out  again. 

"Yes,  at  their  own  trades.  And  one  was  an  artificial- 
flower  maker,  and  the  other  a  glass-blower.  Oh,  they  were 
looking  for  work!  Not  a  hand  would  they  consent  to  lift  to 
labour  of  any  other  kind." 

"And  another  one,"  continued  the  soft-hearted  mistress, 
"used  quite  good  language.  It  was  really  extraordinary  for 
one  of  his  class.  And  he  carried  a  watch.  And  had  lived  in 
Boston.  I  don't  believe  they  are  all  bad.  They  have  always 
seemed  to  me  to  rather  lack  development.  I  always  look 
upon  them  as  children  with  whom  wisdom  has  remained  at  a 
standstill  while  whiskers  have  continued  to  grow.  We  passed 
one  this  evening  as  we  were  driving  home  who  had  a  face  as 
good  as  it  was  incompetent.  He  was  whistling  the  inter 
mezzo  from  'Cavalleria'  and  blowing  the  spirit  of  Mascagni 
himself  into  it." 

A  bright-eyed  young  girl  who  sat  at  the  left  of  the  mis 
tress  leaned  over,  and  said  in  a  confidential  undertone: 

"I  wonder,  mamma,  if  that  tramp  we  passed  on  the  road 
found  my  stocking,  and  do  you  think  he  will  hang  it  up  to 
night?  Now  I  can  hang  up  but  one.  Do  you  know  why  I 
wanted  a  new  pair  of  silk  stockings  when  I  have  plenty? 
Well,  old  Aunt  Judy  says,  if  you  hang  up  two  that  have 
never  been  worn,  Santa  Claus  will  fill  one  with  good  things, 
and  Monsieur  Pambe  will  place  in  the  other  payment  for  all 
the  words  you  have  spoken  —  good  or  bad  —  on  the  day  be- 


Whistling  Dick's  Christinas  Stocking     273 

fore  Christmas.  That's  why  I've  been  unusually  nice  and 
polite  to  everyone  to-day.  Monsieur  Pambe,  you  know,  is  a 
witch  gentleman ;  he  —  " 

The  words  of  the  young  girl  were  interrupted  by  a  startling 
thing. 

Like  the  wraith  of  some  burned-out  shooting  star,  a  black 
streak  came  crashing  through  the  window-pane  and  upon  the 
table,  where  it  shivered  into  fragments  a  dozen  pieces  of 
crystal  and  china  ware,  and  then  glanced  between  the  heads 
of  the  guests  to  the  wall,  imprinting  therein  a  deep,  round 
indentation,  at  which,  to-day,  the  visitor  to  Bellemeade  mar 
vels  as  he  gazes  upon  it  and  listens  to  this  tale  as  it  is  told. 

The  women  screamed  in  many  keys,  and  the  men  sprang 
to  their  feet,  and  would  have  laid  their  hands  upon  their 
swords  had  not  the  verities  of  chronology  forbidden. 

The  planter  was  the  first  to  act ;  he  sprang  to  the  intruding 
missile,  and  held  it  up  to  view. 

"By  Jupiter !"  he  cried.  "A  meteoric  shower  of  hosiery ! 
Has  communication  at  last  been  established  with  Mars?" 

"I  should  say  —  ahem !  —  Venus,"  ventured  a  young-gen 
tleman  visitor,  looking  hopefully  for  approbation  toward  the 
unresponsive  young-lady  visitors. 

The  planter  held  at  arm's  length  the  unceremonious  visitor 
—  a  long  dangling  black  stocking.  "It's  loaded,"  he  an 
nounced. 

As  he  spoke  he  reversed  the  stocking,  holding  it  by  the  toe, 
and  down  from  it  dropped  a  roundish  stone,  wrapped  about 
by  a  piece  of  yellowish  paper.  "Now  for  the  first  interstellar 
message  of  the  century !"  he  cried ;  and  nodding  to  the  com 
pany,  who  had  crowded  about  him,  he  adjusted  his  glasses 
with  provoking  deliberation,  and  examined  it  closely.  When 
he  finished,  he  had  changed  from  the  jolly  host  to  the  prac 
tical,  decisive  man  of  business.  He  immediately  struck  a 
bell,  and  said  to  the  silent-footed  mulatto  man  who  responded : 


274  Roads  of  Destiny 

"Go  and  tell  Mr.  Wesley  to  get  Reeves  and  Maurice  and 
about  ten  stout  hands  they  can  rely  upon,  and  come  to  the 
hall  door  at  once.  Tell  him  to  have  the  men  arm  themselves, 
and  bring  plenty  of  ropes  and  plough  lines.  Tell  him  to 
hurry."  And  then  he  read  aloud  from  the  paper  these  words : 

To  THE  GENT  OF  DE  Hous: 

Dere  is  five  tuff  hoboes  xcept  meself  in  the  vaken  lot  near  de 
road  war  de  old  brick  piles  is.  Dey  got  me  stuck  up  wid  a  gun  see 
and  I  taken  dis  means  of  comunikaten.  2  of  der  lads  is  gone  down 
to  set  fire  to  de  cain  field  below  de  hous  and  when  yous  fellers  goes 
to  turn  de  hoes  on  it  de  hole  gang  is  goin  to  rob  de  hous  of  de 
money  yoo  gotto  pay  off  wit  say  git  a  move  on  ye  say  de  kid  dropt 
dis  sock  in  der  rode  tel  her  mery  crismus  de  same  as  she  told  me. 
Ketch  de  bums  down  de  rode  first  and  den  sen  a  relefe  core  to  get 
me  out  of  soke  youres  truly,  WHISTLED  DICK. 

There  was  some  quiet,  but  rapid,  manoeuvring  at  Bellemeade 
during  the  ensuing  half  hour,  which  ended  in  five  disgusted 
and  sullen  tramps  being  captured,  and  locked  securely  in  an 
outhouse  pending  the  coming  of  the  morning  and  retribu 
tion.  For  another  result,  the  visiting  young  gentlemen  had 
secured  the  unqualified  worship  of  the  visiting  young  ladies 
by  their  distinguished  and  heroic  conduct.  For  still  another, 
behold  Whistling  Dick,  the  hero,  seated  at  the  planter's 
table,  feasting  upon  viands  his  experience  had  never  before 
included,  and  waited  upon  by  admiring  femininity  in  shapes 
of  such  beauty  and  "swellness"  that  even  his  ever-full  mouth 
could  scarcely  prevent  him  from  whistling.  He  was  made 
to  disclose  in  detail  his  adventure  with  the  evil  gang  of  Boston 
Harry,  and  how  he  cunningly  wrote  the  note  and  wrapped  it 
around  the  stone  and  placed  it  in  the  toe  of  the  stocking,  and, 
watching  his  chance,  sent  it  silently,  with  a  wonderful  cen 
trifugal  momentum,  like  a  comet,  at  one  of  the  big  lighted 
windows  of  the  dining-room. 

The  planter  vowed  that  the  wanderer  should  wander  no 


Whistling  Dick's  'Christmas  Stocking     275 

more;  that  his  was  a  goodness  and  an  honesty  that  should  be 
rewarded,  and  that  a  debt  of  gratitude  had  been  made  that 
must  be  paid;  for  had  he  not  saved  them  from  a  doubtless 
imminent  loss,  and  maybe  a  greater  calamity?  He  assured 
Whistling  Dick  that  he  might  consider  himself  a  charge  upon 
the  honour  of  Bellemeade;  that  a  position  suited  to  his  pow 
ers  would  be  found  for  him  at  once,  and  hinted  that  the  way 
would  be  heartily  smoothed  for  him  to  rise  to  as  high  places 
of  emolument  and  trust  as  the  plantation  afforded. 

But  now,  they  said,  he  must  be  weary,  and  the  immediate 
thing  to  consider  was  rest  and  sleep.  So  the  mistress  spoke 
to  a  servant,  and  Whistling  Dick  was  conducted  to  a  room 
in  the  wing  of  the  house  occupied  by  the  servants.  To  this 
room,  in  a  few  minutes,  was  brought  a  portable  tin  bathtub 
filled  with  water,  which  was  placed  on  a  piece  of  oiled  cloth 
upon  the  floor.  There  the  vagrant  was  left  to  pass  the  night. 

By  the  light  of  a  candle  he  examined  the  room.  A  bed, 
with  the  covers  neatly  turned  back,  revealed  snowy  pillows 
and  sheets.  A  worn,  but  clean,  red  carpet  covered  the  floor. 
There  was  a  dresser  with  a  beveled  mirror,  a  washstand  with 
a  flowered  bowl  and  pitcher;  the  two  or  three  chairs  were 
softly  upholstered.  A  little  table  held  books,  papers,  and 
a  day-old  cluster  of  roses  in  a  jar.  There  were  towels  on  a 
rack  and  soap  in  a  white  dish. 

Whistling  Dick  set  his  candle  on  a  chair  and  placed  his 
hat  carefully  under  the  table.  After  satisfying  what  we 
must  suppose  to  have  been  his  curiosity  by  a  sober  scrutiny, 
he  removed  his  coat,  folded  it,  and  laid  it  upon  the  floor,  near 
the  wall,  as  far  as  possible  from  the  unused  bathtub.  Taking 
his  coat  for  a  pillow,  he  stretched  himself  luxuriously  upon 
the  carpet. 

When,  on  Christmas  morning,  the  first  streaks  of  dawn 
broke  above  the  marshes,  Whistling  Dick  awoke,  and  reached 
instinctively  for  his  hat.  Then  he  remembered  that  the  skirts 


276  Roads  of  Destiny 

of  Fortune  had  swept  him  into  their  folds  on  the  night  pre 
vious,  and  he  went  to  the  window  and  raised  it,  to  let  the 
fresh  breath  of  the  morning  cool  his  brow  and  fix  the  yet 
dream-like  memory  of  his  good  luck  within  his  brain. 

As  he  stood  there,  certain  dread  and  ominous  sounds  pierced 
the  fearful  hollow  of  his  ear. 

The  force  of  plantation  workers,  eager  to  complete  the 
shortened  task  allotted  to  them,  were  all  astir.  The  mighty 
din  of  the  ogre  Labour  shook  the  earth,  and  the  poor  tattered 
and  forever  disguised  Prince  in  search  of  his  fortune  held 
tight  to  the  window-sill  even  in  the  enchanted  castle,  and 
trembled. 

Already  from  the  bosom  of  the  mill  came  the  thunder  of 
rolling  barrels  of  sugar,  and  (prison-like  sounds)  there  was 
a  great  rattling  of  chains  as  the  mules  were  harried  with  stimu 
lant  imprecations  to  their  places  by  the  waggon-tongues.  A 
little  vicious  "dummy"  engine,  with  a  train  of  flat  cars  in 
tow,  stewed  and  fumed  on  the  plantation  tap  of  the  narrow- 
gauge  railroad,  and  a  toiling,  hurrying,  hallooing  stream  of 
workers  were  dimly  seen  in  the  half  darkness  loading  the 
train  with  the  weekly  output  of  sugar.  Here  was  a  poem; 
an  epic  —  nay,  a  tragedy  —  with  work,  the  curse  of  the  world, 
for  its  theme. 

The  December  air  was  frosty,  but  the  sweat  broke  out  upon 
Whistling  Dick's  face.  He  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  looked  down.  Fifteen  feet  below  him,  against  the 
wall  of  the  house,  he  could  make  out  that  a  border  of  flow 
ers  grew,  and  by  that  token  he  overhung  a  bed  of  soft  earth. 

Softly  as  a  burglar  goes,  he  clambered  out  upon  the  sill, 
lowered  himself  until  he  hung  by  his  hands  alone,  and  then 
dropped  safely.  No  one  seemed  to  be  about  upon  this  side 
of  the  house.  He  dodged  low,  and  skimmed  swiftly  across 
the  yard  to  the  low  fence.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  vault 
this*  for  a  terror  urged  him  such  as  lifts  the  gazelle  over 


Whistling  Dick's  Christmas  Stocking    277 

the  thorn  bush  when  the  lion  pursues.  A  crash  through  the 
dew-drenched  weeds  on  the  roadside,  a  clutching,  slippery 
rush  up  the  grassy  side  of  the  levee  to  the  footpath  at  the 
summit,  and  —  he  was  free ! 

The  east  was  blushing  and  brightening.  The  wind,  him 
self  a  vagrant  rover,  saluted  his  brother  upon  the  cheek.  Some 
wild  geese,  high  above,  gave  cry.  A  rabbit  skipped  along 
the  path  before  him,  free  to  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left 
as  his  mood  should  send  him.  The  river  slid  past,  and  cer 
tainly  no  one  could  tell  the  ultimate  abiding  place  of  its 
waters. 

A  small,  ruffled,  brown-breasted  bird,  sitting  upon  a  dog 
wood  sapling,  began  a  soft,  throaty,  tender  little  piping  in 
praise  of  the  dew  which  entices  foolish  worms  from  their 
holes;  but  suddenly  he  stopped,  and  sat  with  his  head  turned 
sidewise,  listening. 

From  the  path  along  the  levee  there  burst  forth  a  jubilant, 
stirring,  buoyant,  thrilling  whistle,  loud  and  keen  and  clear 
as  the  cleanest  notes  of  the  piccolo.  The  soaring  sound  rip 
pled  and  trilled  and  arpeggioed  as  the  songs  of  wild  birds 
do  not;  but  it  had  a  wild  free  grace  that,  in  a  way,  reminded 
the  small  brown  bird  of  something  familiar,  but  exactly  what 
he  could  not  tell.  There  was  in  it  the  bird  call,  or  reveille, 
that  all  birds  know;  but  a  great  waste  of  lavish,  unmeaning 
things  that  art  had  added  and  arranged,  besides,  and  that 
were  quite  puzzling  and  strange;  and  the  little  brown  bird 
sat  with  his  head  on  one  side  until  the  sound  died  away  in  the 
distance. 

The  little  bird  did  not  know  that  the  part  of  that  strange 
warbling  that  he  understood  was  just  what  kept  the  warbler 
without  his  breakfast;  but  he  knew  very  well  that  the  part  he 
did  not  understand  did  not  concern  him,  so  he  gave  a  little 
flutter  of  his  wings  and  swooped  down  like  a  brown  bullet 
upon  a  big  fat  worm  that  was  wriggling  along  the  levee  path. 


XX 

THE  HALBERDIER  OF  THE  LITTLE  RHEIN- 
SCHLOSS 

1  GO  sometimes  into  the  Bierhalle  and  restaurant  called  Old 
Munich.  Not  long  ago  it  was  a  resort  of  interesting  Bo 
hemians,  but  now  only  artists  and  musicians  and  literary  folk 
frequent  it.  But  the  Pilsner  is  yet  good,  and  I  take  some 
diversion  from  the  conversation  of  Waiter  No.  18. 

For  many  years  the  customers  of  Old  Munich  have  ac 
cepted  the  place  as  a  faithful  copy  from  the  ancient  German 
town.  The  big  hall  with  its  smoky  rafters,  rows  of  im 
ported  steins,  portrait  of  Goethe,  and  verses  painted  on  the 
walls  —  translated  into  German  from  the  original  of  the  Cin 
cinnati  poets  —  seems  atmospherically  correct  when  viewed 
through  the  bottom  of  a  glass. 

But  not  long  ago  the  proprietors  added  the  room  above, 
called  it  the  Little  Rheinschloss,  and  built  in  a  stairway.  Up 
there  was  an  imitation  stone  parapet,  ivy-covered,  and  the 
walls  were  painted  to  represent  depth  and  distance,  with 
the  Rhine  winding  at  the  base  of  the  vineyarded  slopes, 
and  the  castle  of  Ehrenbreitstein  looming  directly  opposite 
the  entrance.  Of  course  there  were  tables  and  chairs;  and 
you  could  have  beer  and  food  brought  you,  as  you  naturally 
would  on  the  top  of  a  castle  on  the  Rhine. 

I  went  into  Old  Munich  one  afternoon  when  there  were 
few  customers,  and  sat  at  my  usual  table  near  the  stairway. 
I  was  shocked  and  almost  displeased  to  perceive  that  the 
glass  cigar-case  by  the  orchestra  stand  had  been  smashed  ta 

278 


The  Halberdier  of  the  Rheinschloss      270 

smithereens.  I  did  not  like  things  to  happen  in  Old  Munich. 
Nothing  had  ever  happened  there  before. 

Waiter  No.  18  came  and  breathed  on  my  neck.  I  was  his 
by  right  of  discovery.  Eighteen's  brain  was  built  like  a 
corral.  It  was  full  of  ideas  which,  when  he  opened  the  gate, 
came  huddling  out  like  a  flock  of  sheep  that  might  get  to 
gether  afterward  or  might  not.  I  did  not  shine  as  a  shep 
herd.  As  a  type  Eighteen  fitted  nowhere.  I  did  not  find 
out  if  he  had  a  nationality,  family,  creed,  grievance,  hobby, 
soul,  preference,  home  or  vote.  He  only  came  always  to 
my  table  and,  as  long  as  his  leisure  would  permit,  let  words 
flutter  from  him  like  swallows  leaving  a  barn  at  daylight. 

"How  did  the  cigar-case  come  to  be  broken,  Eighteen?" 
I  asked,  with  a  certain  feeling  of  personal  grievance. 

"I  can  tell  you  about  that,  sir,"  said  he,  resting  his  foot 
on  the  chair  next  to  mine.  "Did  you  ever  have  anybody 
hand  you  a  double  handful  of  good  luck  while  both  your  hands 
was  full  of  bad  luck,  and  stop  to  notice  how  your  fingers  be 
haved?" 

"No  riddles,  Eighteen,"  said  I.  "Leave  out  palmistry  and 
manicuring." 

"You  remember,"  said  Eighteen,  "the  guy  in  the  ham 
mered  brass  Prince  Albert  and  the  oroide  gold  pants  and  the 
amalgamated  copper  hat,  that  carried  the  combination  meat- 
axe,  ice-pick,  and  liberty-pole,  and  used  to  stand  on  the  first 
landing  as  you  go  up  to  the  Little  Rindslosh?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  I.  "The  halberdier.  I  never  noticed 
him  particularly.  I  remember  I  thought  he  was  only  a  suit 
of  armour.  He  had  a  perfect  poise." 

"He  had  more  than  that,"  said  Eighteen.  "He  was  me 
friend.  He  was  an  advertisement.  The  boss  hired  him  to 
stand  on  the  stairs  for  a  kind  of  scenery  to  show  there  was 
something  doing  in  the  has-been  line  upstairs.  What  did  you 
call  him  —  a  what  kind  of  a  beer?" 


280  Roads  of  Destiny 

"A  halberdier/'  said  I.  "That  was  an  ancient  man-at- 
arms  of  many  hundred  years  ago." 

"Some  mistake,"  said  Eighteen.  "This  one  wasn't  that 
old.  He  wasn't  over  twenty-three  or  four. 

"It  was  the  boss's  idea,  rigging  a  man  up  in  an  ante-bellum 
suit  of  tinware  and  standing  him  on  the  landing  of  the  slosh. 
He  bought  the  goods  at  a  Fourth  Avenue  antique  store,  and 
hung  a  sign  out :  'Able-bodied  hal  —  halberdier  wanted. 
Costume  furnished/ 

"The  same  morning  a  young  man  with  wrecked  good  clothes 
and  a  hungry  look  comes  in,  bringing  the  sign  with  him.  I 
was  filling  the  mustard-pots  at  my  station. 

"  'I'm  it,'  says  he,  'whatever  it  is.  But  I  never  halber- 
diered  in  a  restaurant.  Put  me  on.  Is  it  a  masquerade?' 

"  'I  hear  talk  in  the  kitchen  of  a  fishball/  says  I. 

"  'Bully  for  you,  Eighteen,'  says  he.  'You  and  I'll  get 
on.  Show  me  the  boss's  desk.' 

"Well,  the  boss  tries  the  Harveyized  pajamas  on  him,  and 
they  fitted  him  like  the  scales  on  a  baked  redsnapper,  and  he 
gets  the  job.  You've  seen  what  it  is  —  he  stood  straight  up 
in  the  corner  of  the  first  landing  with  his  halberd  to  his 
shoulder,  looking  right  ahead  and  guarding  the  Portugals  of 
the  castle.  The  boss  is  nutty  about  having  the  true  Old- 
World  flavour  to  his  joint.  'Halberdiers  goes  with  Rind- 
sloshes,'  says  he,  'just  as  rats  goes  with  rathskellers  and 
white  cotton  stockings  with  Tyrolean  villages.'  The  boss  is 
a  kind  of  a  antiologist,  and  is  all  posted  up  on  data  and  such 
information. 

"From  8  P.  M.  to  two  in  the  morning  was  the  halberdier's 
hours.  He  got  two  meals  with  us  help  and  a  dollar  a  night. 
I  eat  with  him  at  the  table.  He  liked  me.  He  never  told 
his  name.  He  was  travelling  impromptu,  like  kings,  I  guess. 
The  first  time  at  supper  I  says  to  him:  'Have  some  more 
of  the  spuds,  Mr.  Frelinghuysen.'  'Oh,  don't  be  so  formal 


The  Halberdier  of  the  Eheinschloss      281 

and  offish,  Eighteen/  says  he.  'Call  me  Hal  —  that's  short 
for  halberdier/  'Oh,  don't  think  I  wanted  to  pry  for  names/ 
says  I.  'I  know  all  about  the  dizzy  fall  from  wealth  and 
greatness.  We've  got  a  count  washing  dishes  in  the  kitchen; 
and  the  third  bartender  used  to  be  a  Pullman  conductor.  And 
they  work,  Sir  Percival/  says  I,  sarcastic. 

"  'Eighteen,"  says  he,  'as  a  friendly  devil  in  a  cabbage- 
scented  hell,  would  you  mind  cutting  up  this  piece  of  steak 
for  me?  I  don't  say  that  it's  got  more  muscle  than  I  have, 
but  — '  And  then  he  shows  me  the  insides  of  his  hands. 
They  was  blistered  and  cut  and  corned  and  swelled  up  till  they 
looked  like  a  couple  of  flank  steaks  criss-crossed  with  a  knife 
• —  the  kind  the  butchers  hide  and  take  home,  knowing  what  is 
the  best. 

"  'Shoveling  coal/  says  he,  'and  piling  bricks  and  loading 
drays.  But  they  gave  out,  and  I  had  to  resign.  I  was  born 
for  a  halberdier,  and  I've  been  educated  for  twenty-four  years 
to  fill  the  position.  Now,  quit  knocking  my  profession,  and 
pass  along  a  lot  more  of  that  ham.  I'm  holding  the  closing  ex 
ercises/  says  he,  'of  a  forty-eight-hour  fast/ 

"The  second  night  he  was  on  the  job  he  walks  down  from 
his  corner  to  the  cigar-case  and  calls  for  cigarettes.  The 
customers  at  the  tables  all  snicker  out  loud  to  show  their  ac 
quaintance  with  history.  The  boss  is  on. 

"  'An'  —  let's  see  —  oh,  yes  —  'An  anarchism/  says  the 
boss.  'Cigarettes  was  not  made  at  the  time  when  halberdiers 
was  invented.' 

'  'The  ones  you  sell  was/  says  Sir  Percival.  'Caporal  wins 
from  chronology  by  the  length  of  a  cork  tip.'  So  he  gets 
'em  and  lights  one,  and  puts  the  box  in  his  brass  helmet,  and 
goes  back  to  patrolling  the  Rindslosh. 

"He  made  a  big  hit,  'specially  with  the  ladies.  Some  of 
*em  would  poke  him  with  their  fingers  to  see  if  he  was  real 
or  only  a  kind  of  a  stuffed  figure  like  they  burn  in  elegy. 


282  Roads  of  Destiny 

And  when  he'd  move  they'd  squeak,  and  make  eyes  at  him 
as  they  went  up  to  the  slosh.  He  looked  fine  in  his  halber- 
dashery.  He  slept  at  $2  a  week  in  a  hall-room  on  Third 
Avenue.  He  invited  me  up  there  one  night.  He  had  a  little 
book  on  the  washstand  that  he  read  instead  of  shopping  in 
the  saloons  after  hours.  'I'm  on  to  that/  says  I,  'from  read 
ing  about  it  in  novels.  All  the  heroes  on  the  bum  carry  the 
little  book.  It's  either  Tantalus  or  Liver  or  Horace,  and 
it's  printed  in  Latin,  and  you're  a  college  man.  And  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised/  says  I,  'if  you  wasn't  educated,  too.' 
But  it  was  only  the  batting  averages  of  the  League  for  the 
last  ten  years. 

"One  night,  about  half  past  eleven,  there  comes  in  a  party 
of  these  high-rollers  that  are  always  hunting  up  new  places 
to  eat  in  and  poke  fun  at.  There  was  a  swell  girl  in  a  40 
H.-P.  auto  tan  coat  and  veil,  and  a  fat  old  man  with  white 
side-whiskers,  and  a  young  chap  that  couldn't  keep  his  feet 
off  the  tail  of  the  girl's  coat,  and  an  oldish  lady  that  looked 
upon  life  as  immoral  and  unnecessary.  'How  perfectly  de 
lightful,'  they  says,  'to  sup  in  a  slosh.'  Up  the  stairs  they 
go;  and  in  half  a  minute  back  down  comes  the  girl,  her  skirts 
swishing  like  the  waves  on  the  beach.  She  stops  on  the 
landing  and  looks  our  halberdier  in  the  eye. 

"  'You !'  she  says,  with  a  smile  that  reminded  me  of  lemon 
sherbet.  I  was  waiting  up-stairs  in  the  slosh,  then,  and  I 
was  right  down  here  by  the  door,  putting  some  vinegar  and 
cayenne  into  an  empty  bottle  of  tabasco,  and  I  heard  all  they 
said. 

"  'It/  says  Sir  Percival,  without  moving.  'I'm  only  local 
colour.  Are  my  hauberk,  helmet,  and  halberd  on  straight?' 

"'Is  there  an  explanation  to  this?'  says  she.  'Is  it  a 
practical  joke  such  as  men  play  in  those  Griddle-cake  and 
Lamb  Clubs?  I'm  afraid  I  don't  see  the  point.  I  heard, 


The  Halberdier  of  the  Eheinschloss      283 

vaguely,  that  you  were  away.  For  three  months  I  —  we 
have  not  seen  you  or  heard  from  you.' 

u  'I'm  halberdiering  for  my  living,'  says  the  statue.  'I'm 
working,'  says  he.  'I  don't  suppose  you  know  what  work 
means.' 

"  'Have  you  —  have  you  lost  your  money?'  she  asks. 

"Sir  Percival  studies  a  minute. 

"  'I  am  poorer,'  says  he,  'than  the  poorest  sandwich  man 
on  the  streets  —  if  I  don't  earn  my  living.' 

5  'You  call  this  work?'  says  she.  'I  thought  a  man  worked 
with  his  hands  or  his  head  instead  of  becoming  a  mountebank.' 

'  'The  calling  of  a  halberdier/  says  he,  'is  an  ancient  and 
honourable  one.  Sometimes/  says  he,  'the  man-at-arms  at 
the  door  has  saved  the  castle  while  the  plumed  knights  were 
cake-walking  in  the  banquet-halls  above.' 

"  'I  see  you're  not  ashamed,'  says  she,  'of  your  peculiar 
tastes.  I  wonder,  though,  that  the  manhood  I  used  to  think 
I  saw  in  you  didn't  prompt  you  to  draw  water  or  hew  wood 
instead  of  publicly  flaunting  your  ignominy  in  this  disgrace 
ful  masquerade.' 

"Sir  Percival  kind  of  rattles  his  armour  and  says :  'Helen, 
will  you  suspend  sentence  in  this  matter  for  just  a  little 
while?  You  don't  understand/  says  he.  'I've  got  to  hold 
this  job  down  a  bit  longer.' 

"  'You  like  being  a  harlequin  —  or  halberdier,  as  you  call 
it?'  says  she. 

"  'I  wouldn't  get  thrown  out  of  the  job  just  now/  says  he, 
with  a  grin,  'to  be  appointed  Minister  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James's.' 

"And  then  the  40  H.-P.  girl's  eyes  sparkled  as  hard  as 
diamonds. 

'  'Very  well,'  says  she.  'You  shall  have  full  run  of  your 
serving-man's  tastes  this  night.'  And  she  swims  over  to  the 


284  Roads  of  Destiny 

boss's  desk  and  gives  him  a  smile  that  knocks  the  specks  off 
his  nose. 

"  'I  think  your  Rindslosh/  says  she,  'is  as  beautiful  as  a 
dream.  It  is  a  little  slice  of  the  Old  World  set  down  in  New 
York.  We  shall  have  a  nice  supper  up  there;  but  if  you  will 
grant  us  one  favour  the  illusion  will  be  perfect  —  give  us  your 
halberdier  to  wait  on  our  table/ 

"That  hit  the  boss's  antiology  hobby  just  right.  'Sure/ 
says  he,  'dot  vill  be  fine.  Und  der  orchestra  shall  blay  "Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein"  all  der  time/  And  he  goes  over  and  tells 
the  halberdier  to  go  upstairs  and  hustle  the  grub  at  the  swells' 
table. 

"  'I'm  on  the  job,'  says  Sir  Percival,  taking  off  his  hel 
met  and  hanging  it  on  his  halberd  and  leaning  'em  in  the 
corner.  The  girl  goes  up  and  takes  her  seat  and  I  see  her 
jaw  squared  tight  under  her  smile.  'We're  going  to  be 
waited  on  by  a  real  halberdier/  says  she,  'one  who  is  proud  of 
his  profession.  Isn't  it  sweet?' 

"  'Ripping/  says  the  swell  young  man.  'Much  prefer 
a  waiter/  says  the  fat  old  ger*.  'I  hope  he  doesn't  come 
from  a  cheap  museum/  says  the  old  lady;  'he  might  have 
microbes  in  his  costume/ 

"Before  he  goes  to  ll*e  table,  Sir  Percival  takes  me  by  the 
arm.  'Eighteen/  says  he,  'I've  got  to  pull  off  this  job  with 
out  a  blunder.  You  coach  me  straight  or  I'll  take  that  hal 
berd  and  make  hash  out  of  you/  And  then  he  goes  up  to  the 
table  with  his  coat  of  mail  on  and  a  napkin  over  his  arm  and 
waits  for  the  order. 

"  'Why,  it's  Deering !'  says  the  young  swell.  'Hello,  old 
man.  What  the  —  ' 

"  'Beg  pardon,  sir,'  interrupts  the  halberdier,  'I'm  waiting 
on  the  table/ 

"The  old  man  looks  at  him  grim,  like  a  Boston  bull.  'So, 
Deering/  he  says,  'you're  at  work  yet/ 


The  Halberdier  of  the  Rheinschloss      289 

"  'Yes,  sir/  says  Sir  Percival,  quiet  and  gentlemanly  as  I 
could  have  been  myself,  'for  almost  three  months,  now.' 
'You  haven't  been  discharged  during  the  time?'  asks  the  old 
man.  'Not  once,  sir,'  says  he,  'though  I've  had  to  change 
my  work  several  times.' 

'  'Waiter/  orders  the  girl,  short  and  sharp,  'another  nap 
kin.'  He  brings  her  one,  respectful. 

"I  never  saw  more  devil,  if  I  may  say  it,  stirred  up  in  a 
lady.  There  was  two  bright  red  spots  on  her  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  looked  exactly  like  a  wildcat's  I'd  seen  in  the  zoo. 
Her  foot  kept  slapping  the  floor  all  the  time. 

'  'Waiter,'  she  orders,  'bring  me  filtered  water  without 
ice.  Bring  me  a  footstool.  Take  away  this  empty  salt 
cellar.'  She  kept  him  on  the  jump.  She  was  sure  giving 
the  halberdier  his. 

"There  wasn't  but  a  few  customers  up  in  the  slosh  at  that 
time,  so  I  hung  out  near  the  door  so  I  could  help  Sir  Per- 
cival  serve. 

"He  got  along  fine  with  the  olives  and  celery  and  the 
bluepoints.  They  was  easy.  And  then  the  consomme  came 
up  the  dumb-waiter  all  in  one  big  silver  tureen.  Instead  of 
serving  it  from  the  side-table  he  picks  it  up  between  his 
hands  and  starts  to  the  dining-table  with  it.  When  nearly 
there  he  drops  the  tureen  smash  on  the  floor,  and  the  soup 
soaks  all  the  lower  part  of  that  girl's  swell  silk  dress. 

"  'Stupid  —  incompetent/  says  she,  giving  him  a  look. 
'Standing  in  a  corner  with  a  halberd  seems  to  be  your  mis 
sion  in  life.' 

"  'Pardon  me,  lady/  says  he.  'It  was  just  a  little  bit  hot 
ter  than  blazes.  I  couldn't  help  it.' 

"The  old  man  pulls  out  a  memorandum  book  and  hunts  in 
it.  'The  25th  of  April,  Deering/  says  he.  'I  know  it/ 
says  Sir  Percival.  'And  ten  minutes  to  twelve  o'clock,'  says 
the  old  man.  'By  Jupiter!  you  haven't  won  yet.'  And  he 


286  Roads  of  Destiny 

pounds  the  table  with  his  fist  and  yells  to  me:  'Waiter,  call 
the  manager  at  once  —  tell  him  to  hurry  here  as  fast  as  he 
can.'  I  go  after  the  boss,  and  old  Brockmann  hikes  up  to  the 
slosh  on  the  jump. 

"  'I  want  this  man  discharged  at  once/  roars  the  old  guy. 
'Look  what  he's  done.  Ruined  my  daughter's  dress.  It  cost 
at  least  $600.  Discharge  this  awkward  lout  at  once  or  I'll  sue 
you  for  the  price  of  it.' 

"  'Dis  is  bad  pizness,'  says  the  boss.  'Six  hundred  dol 
lars  is  much.  I  reckon  I  vill  haf  to  —  ' 

'  'Wait  a  minute,  Herr  Brockmann,'  says  Sir  Percival,  easy 
and  smiling.  But  he  was  worked  up  under  his  tin  suitings; 
I  could  see  that.  And  then  he  made  the  finest,  neatest  little 
speech  I  ever  listened  to.  I  can't  give  you  the  words,  of 
course.  He  give  the  millionaires  a  lovely  roast  in  a  sarcastic 
way,  describing  their  automobiles  and  opera-boxes  and  dia 
monds;  and  then  he  got  around  to  the  working-classes  and 
the  kind  of  grub  they  eat  and  the  long  hours  they  work  — 
and  all  that  sort  of  stuff  —  bunkum,  of  course.  'The  rest 
less  rich,'  says  he,  'never  content  with  their  luxuries,  always 
prowling  among  the  haunts  of  the  poor  and  humble,  amusing 
themselves  with  the  imperfections  and  misfortunes  of  their 
fellow  men  and  women.  And  even  here,  Herr  Brockmann,' 
he  says,  'in  this  beautiful  Rindslosh,  a  grand  and  enlighten 
ing  reproduction  of  Old- World  history  and  architecture,  they 
come  to  disturb  its  symmetry  and  picturesqueness  by  demand 
ing  in  their  arrogance  that  the  halberdier  of  the  castle  wait 
upon  their  table!  I  have  faithfully  and  conscientiously.'  says 
he,  'performed  my  duties  as  a  halberdier.  I  know  nothing 
of  a  waiter's  duties.  It  was  the  insolent  whim  of  these  tran 
sient,  pampered  aristocrats  that  I  should  be  detailed  to  serve 
them  food.  Must  I  be  blamed  —  must  I  be  deprived  of  the 
means  of  a  livelihood,'  he  goes  on,  'on  account  of  an  acci 
dent  that  was  the  result  of  their  own  presumption  and 


The  Halberdier  of  the  Eheinschloss      28? 

hai.ghtiness?  But  what  hurts  me  more  than  all/  says  Sir 
Percival,  'is  the  desecration  that  has  been  done  to  this  splen 
did  Rindslosh  —  the  confiscation  of  its  halberdier  to  serve 
menially  at  the  banquet  board.' 

"Even  I  could  see  that  this  stuff  was  piffle;  but  it  caught 
the  boss. 

"  'Mein  Gott/  says  he,  'you  vas  right.  Ein  halberdier 
have  not  got  der  right  to  dish  up  soup.  Him  I  vill  not  dis 
charge.  Have  anoder  waiter  if  you  like,  and  let  mein  hal 
berdier  go  back  and  stand  mit  his  halberd.  But,  gentlemen,* 
he  says,  pointing  to  the  old  man,  'you  go  ahead  and  sue  mit 
der  dress.  Sue  me  for  $600  or  $6,000.  I  stand  der  suit.' 
And  the  boss  puffs  off  down-stairs.  Old  Brockmann  was  an 
all-right  Dutchman. 

"Just  then  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  and  the  old  guy  laughs 
loud.  'You  win,  Deering/  says  he.  'Let  me  explain  to 
all,'  he  goes  on.  'Some  time  ago  Mr.  Deering  asked  me  for 
something  that  I  did  not  want  to  give  him.'  (I  looks  at  the 
girl,  and  she  turns  as  red  as  a  pickled  beet.)  'I  told  him/ 
says  the  old  guy,  'if  he  would  earn  his  own  living  for  three 
months  without  once  being  discharged  for  incompetence,  I 
would  give  him  what  he  wanted.  It  seems  that  the  time  was 
up  at  twelve  o'clock  to-night.  I  came  near  fetching  you, 
though,  Deering,  on  that  soup  question/  says  the  old  boy, 
standing  up  and  grabbing  Sir  Percival's  hand. 

"The  halberdier  lets  out  a  yell  and  jumps  three  feet  high. 

"  'Look  out  for  those  hands/  says  he,  and  he  holds  'em 
up.  You  never  saw  such  hands  except  on  a  labourer  in  a 
limestone  quarry. 

"  'Heavens,  boy !'  says  old  side-whiskers,  'what  have  you 
been  doing  to  'em?' 

"  'Oh/  says  Sir  Percival,  'little  chores  like  hauling  coal 
and  excavating  rock  till  they  went  back  on  me.  And  when 
I  couldn't  hold  a  pick  or  a  whip  I  took  up  halberdiering  to 


288  Roads  of  Destiny 

give  'em  a  rest.  Tureens  full  of  hot  soup  don't  seem  to  be 
a  particularly  soothing  treatment/ 

"I  would  have  bet  on  that  girl.  That  high-tempered  kind 
always  go  as  far  the  other  way,  according  to  my  experience. 
She  whizzes  round  the  table  like  a  cyclone  and  catches  both 
his  hands  in  hers.  'Poor  hands  —  dear  hands/  she  sings 
out,  and  sheds  tears  on  'em  and  holds  'em  close  to  her  bosom. 
.Well,  sir,  with  all  that  Rindslosh  scenery  it  was  just  like  a 
play.  And  the  halberdier  sits  down  at  the  table  at  the  girl's 
side,  and  I  served  the  rest  of  the  supper.  And  that  was  about 
all,  except  that  when  they  left  he  shed  his  hardware  store  and 
went  with  'em." 

I  dislike  to  be  side-tracked  from  an  original  proposition. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me,  Eighteen,"  said  I,  "how  the 
cigar-case  came  to  be  broken." 

"Oh,  that  was  last  night,"  said  Eighteen.  "Sir  Percival 
and  the  girl  drove  up  in  a  cream-coloured  motor-car,  and 
had  dinner  in  the  Rindslosh.  'The  same  table,  Billy,'  I  heard 
her  say  as  they  went  up.  I  waited  on  'em.  We've  got  a  new 
halberdier  now,  a  bow-legged  guy  with  a  face  like  a  sheep. 
As  they  came  down-stairs  Sir  Percival  passes  him  a  ten-case 
note.  The  new  halberdier  drops  his  halberd,  and  it  falls  on 
the  cigar-case.  That's  how  that  happened." 


XXI 

TWO  RENEGADES 

IN  the  Gate  City  of  the  South  the  Confederate  Veterans 
were  reuniting;  and  I  stood  to  see  them  march,  beneath  the 
tangled  flags  of  the  great  conflict,  to  the  hall  of  their  oratory 
a/id  commemoration. 

While  the  irregular  and  halting  line  was  passing  I  made 
onslaught  upon  it  and  dragged  forth  from  the  ranks  my  friend 
Barnard  O'Keefe,  who  had  no  right  to  be  there.  For  he  was  a 
Northerner  born  and  bred ;  and  what  should  he  be  doing  halloo 
ing  for  the  Stars  and  Bars  among  those  gray  and  moribund 
veterans?  And  why  should  he  be  trudging,  with  his  shining^ 
martial,  humorous,  broad  face,  among  those  warriors  of  a  pre 
vious  and  alien  generation? 

I  say  I  dragged  him  forth,  and  held  him  till  the  last  hick 
ory  leg  and  waving  goatee  had  stumbled  past.  And  then  J 
hustled  him  out  of  the  crowd  into  a  cool  interior;  for  the 
Gate  City  was  stirred  that  day,  and  the  hand-organs  wisely 
eliminated  "Marching  Through  Georgia"  from  their  reper 
tories. 

"Now,  what  deviltry  are  you  up  to?"  I  asked  of  O'Keefe 
when  there  were  a  table  and  things  in  glasses  between  us. 

O'Keefe  wiped  his  heated  face  and  instigated  a  commotion 
among  the  floating  ice  in  his  glass  before  he  chose  to  an 
swer. 

"I  am  assisting  at  the  wake,"  said  he,  "of  the  only  na 
tion  on  earth  that  ever  did  me  a  good  turn.  As  one  gentle 
man  to  another,  I  am  ratifying  and  celebrating  the  foreign 

289 


290  Roads  of  Destiny 

policy  of  the  late  Jefferson  Davis,  as  fine  a  statesman  as 
ever  settled  the  financial  question  of  a  country.  Equal  ratio 
—  that  was  his  platform  —  a  barrel  of  money  for  a  barrel  of 
flour  —  a  pair  of  $20  bills  for  a  pair  of  boots  —  a  hatful  of 
currency  for  a  new  hat  —  say,  ain't  that  simple  compared 
with  W.  J.  B.'s  little  old  oxidized  plank?" 

"What  talk  is  this?"  I  asked.  "Your  financial  digres 
sion  is  merely  a  subterfuge.  Why  were  you  marching  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Confederate  Veterans?" 

"Because,  my  lad/'  answered  O'Keefe,  "the  Confederate 
Government  in  its  might  and  power  interposed  to  protect  and 
defend  Barnard  O'Keefe  against  immediate  and  dangerous 
assassination  at  the  hands  of  a  blood-thirsty  foreign  country 
after  the  United  States  of  America  had  overruled  his  appeal 
for  protection,  and  had  instructed  Private  Secretary  Cortelyou 
to  reduce  his  estimate  of  the  Republican  majority  for  1905  by 
one  vote." 

"Come,  Barney/'  said  I,  "the  Confederate  States  of 
America  has  been  out  of  existence  nearly  forty  years.  You 
do  not  look  older  yourself.  When  was  it  that  the  deceased 
government  exerted  its  foreign  policy  in  your  behalf?" 

"Four  months  ago,"  said  O'Keefe  promptly.  "The  in 
famous  foreign  power  I  alluded  to  is  still  staggering  from 
the  official  blow  dealt  it  by  Mr.  Davis's  contraband  aggrega 
tion  of  states.  That's  why  you  see  me  cake-walking  with 
the  ex-rebs  to  the  illegitimate  tune  about  'simmon-seeds  and 
cotton.  I  vote  for  the  Great  Father  in  Washington,  but  I 
am  not  going  back  on  Mars'  Jeff.  You  say  the  Confederacy 
has  been  dead  forty  years?  Well,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  it, 
I'd  have  been  breathing  to-day  with  soul  so  dead  I  couldn't 
have  whispered  a  single  cuss-word  about  my  native  land.  The 
O'Keefes  are  not  overburdened  with  ingratitude." 

I  must  have  looked  bewildered.  "The  war  was  over/'  I 
said  vacantly,  "in  — " 


Two  Renegades  291 

O'Keefe  laughed  loudly,  scattering  my  thoughts. 

"Ask  old  Doc  Millikin  if  the  war  is  over!"  he  shouted, 
hugely  diverted.  "Oh,  no!  Doc  hasn't  surrendered  yet. 
And  the  Confederate  States!  Well,  I  just  told  you  they 
bucked  officially  and  solidly  and  nationally  against  a  foreign 
government  four  months  ago  and  kept  me  from  being  shot. 
Old  Jeff's  country  stepped  in  and  brought  me  off  under  its 
wing  while  Roosevelt  was  having  a  gunboat  painted  and 
waiting  for  the  National  Campaign  Committee  to  look  up 
whether  I  had  ever  scratched  the  ticket/' 

"Isn't  there  a  story  in  this,  Barney?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  said  O'Keefe;  "but  I'll  give  you  the  facts.  You 
know  I  went  down  to  Panama  when  this  irritation  about  a 
canal  began.  I  thought  I'd  get  in  on  the  ground  floor.  I 
did,  and  had  to  sleep  on  it,  and  drink  water  with  little  zoos 
in  it;  so,  of  course,  I  got  the  Chagres  fever.  That  was  in  a 
little  town  called  San  Juan  on  the  coast. 

"After  I  got  the  fever  hard  enough  to  kill  a  Port-au-Prince 
nigger,  I  had  a  relapse  in  the  shape  of  Doc  Millikin. 

"There  was  a  doctor  to  attend  a  sick  man!  If  Doc  Milli 
kin  had  your  case,  he  made  the  terrors  of  death  seem  like  an 
invitation  to  a  donkey-party.  He  had  the  bedside  manners 
of  a  Piute  medicine-man  and  the  soothing  presence  of  a  dray 
loaded  with  iron  bridge-girders.  When  he  laid  his  hand  on 
your  fevered  brow  you  felt  like  Cap  John  Smith  just  before 
Pocahontas  went  his  bail. 

"Well,  this  old  medical  outrage  floated  down  to  my  shack 
when  I  sent  for  him.  He  was  built  like  a  shad,  and  his  eye 
brows  was  black,  and  his  white  whiskers  trickled  down  from 
his  chin  like  milk  coming  out  of  a  sprinkling-pot.  He  had  a 
nigger  boy  along  carrying  an  old  tomato-can  full  of  calomel, 
and  a  saw. 

"Doc  felt  my;  pulse,  and  then  he  began  to  mess  up  some 


292  Roads  of  Destiny 

calomel  with  an  agricultural  implement  that  belonged  to  the 
trowel  class. 

"I  don't  want  any  death-mask  made  yet,  Doc,'  I  says,  'nor 
my  liver  put  in  a  plaster-of-Paris  cast.  I'm  sick;  and  it's 
medicine  I  need,  not  frescoing/ 

'  'You're  a  blame  Yankee,  ain't  you?'  asked  Doc,  going  on 
mixing  up  his  Portland  cement. 

"  'I'm  from  the  North,'  says  I,  'but  I'm  a  plain  man,  and 
don't  care  for  mural  decorations.  When  you  get  the  Isthmus 
all  asphalted  over  with  that  boll-weevil  prescription,  would 
you  mind  giving  me  a  dose  of  pain-killer,  or  a  little  strychnine 
on  toast  to  ease  up  this  feeling  of  unhealthiness  that  I  have 
got?' 

'  'They  was  all  sassy,  just  like  you/  says  old  Doc,  'but 
we  lowered  their  temperature  considerable.  Yes,  sir,  I  reckon 
we  sent  a  good  many  of  ye  over  to  old  mortuis  nisi  bonum. 
Look  at  Antietam  and  Bull  Run  and  Seven  Pines  and  around 
Nashville !  There  never  was  a  battle  where  we  didn't  lick  ye 
unless  you  was  ten  to  our  one.  I  knew  you  were  a  blame 
Yankee  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  you/ 

"  'Don't  reopen  the  chasm,  Doc/  I  begs  him.  'Any  Yan- 
keeness  I  may  have  is  geographical;  and,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  a  Southerner  is  as  good  as  a  Filipino  any  day. 
I'm  feeling  too  bad  to  argue.  Let's  have  secession  without 
misrepresentation,  if  you  say  so;  but  what  I  need  is  more 
laudanum  and  less  Lundy's  Lane.  If  you're  mixing  that 
compound  gefloxide  of  gefloxicum  for  me,  please  fill  my  ears 
with  it  before  you  get  around  to  the  battle  of  Gettysburg,  for 
there  is  a  subject  full  of  talk." 

"By  this  time  Doc  Millikin  had  thrown  up  a  line  of  for 
tifications  on  square  pieces  of  paper;  and  he  says  to  me: 
'Yank,  take  one  of  these  powders  every  two  hours.  They 
won't  kill  you.  I'll  be  around  again  about  sundown  to  see 
if  you're  alive/ 


Two  Renegades  293 

"Old  Doc's  powders  knocked  the  chagres.  I  stayed  in 
San  Juan,  and  got  to  knowing  him  better.  He  was  from 
Mississippi,  and  the  red-hottest  Southerner  that  ever  smelled 
mint.  He  made  Stonewall  Jackson  and  R.  E.  Lee  look  like 
Abolitionists.  He*  had  a  family  somewhere  down  near  Yazoo 
City;  but  he  stayed  away  from  the  States  on  account  of  an 
uncontrollable  liking  he  had  for  the  absence  of  a  Yankee  gov 
ernment.  Him  and  me  got  as  thick  personally  as  the  Em 
peror  of  Russia  and  the  dove  of  peace,  but  sectionally  we 
didn't  amalgamate. 

"  'Twas  a  beautiful  system  of  medical  practice  introduced 
by  old  Doc  into  that  isthmus  of  land.  He'd  take  that  bracket- 
saw  and  the  mild  chloride  and  his  hypodermic,  and  treat  any 
thing  from  yellow  fever  to  a  personal  friend. 

"Besides  his  other  liabilities  Doc  could  play  a  flute  for  a 
minute  or  two.  He  was  guilty  of  two  tunes  — 'Dixie'  and 
another  one  that  was  mighty  close  to  the  'Suwanee  River' — 
you  might  say  one  of  its  tributaries.  He  used  to  come  down 
and  sit  with  me  while  I  was  getting  well,  and  aggrieve  his 
flute  and  say  unreconstructed  things  about  the  North.  You'd 
have  thought  the  smoke  from  the  first  gun  at  Fort  Sumter 
was  still  floating  around  in  the  air. 

"You  know  that  was  about  the  time  they  staged  them 
property  revolutions  down  there,  that  wound  up  in  the  fifth 
act  with  the  thrilling  canal  scene  where  Uncle  Sam  has  nine 
curtain-calls  holding  Miss  Panama  by  the  hand,  while  the 
bloodhounds  keep  Senator  Morgan  treed  up  in  a  cocoanut-palm. 

"That's  the  way  it  wound  up;  but  at  first  it  seemed  as  if 
Colombia  was  going  to  make  Panama  look  like  one  of  the 
$3.98  kind,  with  dents  made  in  it  in  the  factory,  like  they 
wear  at  North  Beach  fish  fries.  For  mine,  I  played  the 
straw-hat  crowd  to  win;  and  they  gave  me  a  colonel's  com 
mission  over  a  brigade  of  twenty-seven  men  in  the  left  wing 
*wid  second  joint  of  the  insurgent  army. 


294  Roads  of  Destiny 

"The  Colombian  troops  were  awfully  rude  to  us.  One  day 
when  I  had  my  brigade  in  a  sandy  spot,  with  its  shoes  off 
doing  a  battalion  drill  by  squads,  the  Government  army  rushed 
from  behind  a  bush  at  us,  acting  as  noisy  and  disagreeable  as 
they  could. 

"My  troops  enfiladed,  left-faced,  and  left  the  spot.  After 
enticing  the  enemy  for  three  miles  or  so  we  struck  a  brier- 
patch  and  had  to  sit  down.  When  we  were  ordered  to  throw 
up  our  toes  and  surrender  we  obeyed.  Five  of  my  best  staff- 
officers  fell,  suffering  extremely  with  stone-bruised  heels. 

"Then  and  there  those  Colombians  took  your  friend  Bar 
ney,  sir,  stripped  him  of  the  insignia  of  his  rank,  consisting 
of  a  pair  of  brass  knuckles  and  a  canteen  of  rum,  and  dragged 
him  before  a  military  court.  The  presiding  general  went 
through  the  usual  legal  formalities  that  sometimes  cause  a  case 
to  hang  on  the  calendar  of  a  South  American  military  court 
as  long  as  ten  minutes.  He  asked  me  my  age,  and  then  sen 
tenced  me  to  be  shot. 

"They  woke  up  the  court  interpreter,  an  American  named 
Jenks,  who  was  in  the  rum  business  and  vice  versa,  and  told 
him  to  translate  the  verdict. 

"Jenks  stretched  himself  and  took  a  morphine  tablet. 

"  'You've  got  to  back  up  against  th'  'dobe,  old  man,'  says  he 
to  me.  'Three  weeks,  I  believe,  you  get.  Haven't  got  a 
chew  of  fine-cut  on  you,  have  you?' 

"  'Translate  that  again,  with  foot-notes  and  a  glossary/ 
says  I.  'I  don't  know  whether  I'm  discharged,  condemned, 
or  handed  over  to  the  Gerry  Society/ 

"  'Oh/  says  Jenks,  'don't  you  understand  ?  You're  to  be 
stood  up  against  a  'dobe  wall  and  shot  in  two  or  three  weeks 
—  three,  I  think,  they  said.' 

"'Would  you  mind  asking  'em  which?'  says  I.  'A  week 
don't  amount  to  much  after  you  are  dead,  but  it  seems  a  real 
nice  long  spell  while  you  are  alive/ 


Two  Eenegades  295 

'"It's  tKO  weeks/  says  the  interpreter,  after  inquiring  in 
Spanish  of  the  court.  'Shall  I  ask  'em  again?' 

"  'Let  be/  says  I.  'Let's  have  a  stationary  verdict.  If 
I  keep  on  appealing  this  way  they'll  have  me  shot  about 
ten  days  before  I  was  captured.  No,  I  haven't  got  any  fine- 
cut.' 

"They  sends  me  over  to  the  calaboza  with  a  detachment 
of  coloured  postal-telegraph  boys  carrying  Enfield  rifles,  and 
I  am  locked  up  in  a  kind  of  brick  bakery.  The  temperature 
in  there  was  just  about  the  kind  mentioned  in  the  cooking 
recipes  that  call  for  a  quick  oven. 

"Then  I  gives  a  silver  dollar  to  one  of  the  guards  to  send 
for  the  United  States  consul.  He  comes  around  in  pajamas, 
with  a  pair  of  glasses  on  his  nose  and  a  dozen  or  two  inside 
of  him. 

"  'I'm  to  be  shot  in  two  weeks,'  says  I.  'And  although 
I've  made  a  memorandum  of  it,  I  don't  seem  to  get  it  off  my 
mind.  You  want  to  call  up  Uncle  Sam  on  the  cable  as  quick 
as  you  can  and  get  him  all  worked  up  about  it.  Have  'em 
send  the  Kentucky  and  the  Kearsarge  and  the  Oregon  down 
right  away.  That'll  be  about  enough  battleships;  but  it 
wouldn't  hurt  to  have  a  couple  of  cruisers  and  a  torpedo-boat 
destroyer,  too.  And  —  say,  if  Dewey  isn't  busy,  better  have 
him  come  along  on  the  fastest  one  of  the  fleet/ 

'  'Now,  see  here,  O'Keefe/  says  the  consul,  getting  the 
best  of  a  hiccup,  'what  do  you  want  to  bother  the  State  De 
partment  about  this  matter  for?' 

"'Didn't  you  hear  me?'  says  I;  'I'm  to  be  shot  in  two 
weeks.  Did  you  think  I  said  I  was  going  to  a  lawn-party? 
And  it  wouldn't  hurt  if  Roosevelt  could  get  the  Japs  to  send 
down  the  Yellowyamtiskookum  or  the  Ogotosingsing  or  some 
other  first-class  cruisers  to  help.  It  would  make  me  feel 
safer.' 

"  'Now,  what  you  want,'   says   the  consul,   'is   not  to   get 


296  Roads  of  Destiny 

excited.  I'll  send  you  over  some  chewing  tobacco  and  some 
banana  fritters  when  I  go  back.  The  United  States  can't 
interfere  in  this.  You  know  you  were  caught  insurging 
against  the  government,  and  you're  subject  to  the  laws  of 
this  country.  Tell  you  the  truth,  I've  had  an  intimation  from 
the  State  Department  —  unofficially,  of  course  —  that  when 
ever  a  soldier  of  fortune  demands  a  fleet  of  gunboats  in  a 
case  of  revolutionary  katzen jammer,  I  should  cut  the  cable, 
give  him  all  the  tobacco  he  wants,  and  after  he's  shot  take 
his  clothes,  if  they  fit  me,  for  part  payment  of  my  salary.' 

"  'Consul/  says  I  to  him,  'this  is  a  serious  question.  You 
are  representing  Uncle  Sam.  This  ain't  any  little  interna 
tional  tomfoolery,  like  a  universal  peace  congress  or  the  chris 
tening  of  the  Shamrock  IV.  I'm  an  American  citizen  and 
I  demand  protection.  I  demand  the  Mosquito  fleet,  and 
Schley,  and  the  Atlantic  squadron,  and  Bob  Evans,  and  Gen 
eral  E.  Byrd  Grubb,  and  two  or  three  protocols.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?' 

"  'Nothing  doing,'  says  the  consul. 

"  'Be  off  with  you,  then,'  says  I,  out  of  patience  with  him, 
'and  send  me  Doc  Millikin.  Ask  Doc  to  come  and  see  me/ 

"Doc  comes  and  looks  through  the  bars  at  me,  surrounded 
by  dirty  soldiers,  with  even  my  shoes  and  canteen  confiscated, 
and  he  looks  mightily  pleased. 

"  'Hello,  Yank,'  says  he,  'getting  a  little  taste  of  John 
son's  Island,  now,  ain't  ye?' 

"  'Doc/  says  I,  'I've  just  had  an  interview  with  the  U.  S. 
consul.  I  gather  from  his  remarks  that  I  might  just  as  well 
have  been  caught  selling  suspenders  in  Kishineff  under  the 
name  of  Rosenstein  as  to  be  in  my  present  condition.  It  seems 
that  the  only  maritime  aid  I  am  to  receive  from  the  United 
States  is  some  navy-plug  to  chew.  Doc/  says  I,  'can't  you 
suspend  hostilities  on  the  slavery  question  long  enough  to  do 
something  for  me  ?' 


Two  Renegades  29T 

"  'It  ain't  been  my  habit/  Doc  Millikin  answers,  'to  dc 
any  painless  dentistry  when  I  find  a  Yank  cutting  an  eye- 
tooth.  So  the  Stars  and  Stripes  ain't  landing  any  marines 
to  shell  the  huts  of  the  Colombian  cannibals,  hey?  Oh,  say, 
can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light  the  star-spangled  ban 
ner  has  fluked  in  the  fight?  What's  the  matter  with  the  War 
Department,  hey?  It's  a  great  thing  to  be  a  citizen  of  a 
gold-standard  nation,  ain't  it?' 

"  'Rub  it  in,  Doc,  all  you  want/  says  I.  'I  guess  we're 
weak  on  foreign  policy/ 

"  'For  a  Yank/  says  Doc,  putting  on  his  specs  and  talk 
ing  more  mild,  'you  ain't  so  bad.  If  you  had  come  from 
below  the  line  I  reckon  I  would  have  liked  you  right  smart. 
Now  since  your  country  has  gone  back  on  you,  you  have  to 
come  to  the  old  doctor  whose  cotton  you  burned  and  whose 
mules  you  stole  and  whose  niggers  you  freed  to  help  you. 
Ain't  that  so,  Yank?' 

"  'It  is/  says  I  heartily,  'and  let's  have  a  diagnosis  of  the 
case  right  away,  for  in  two  weeks'  time  all  you  can  do  is  to 
hold  an  autopsy  and  I  don't  want  to  be  amputated  if  I  can 
help  it/ 

"  'Now/  says  Doc,  business-like,  'it's  easy  enough  for  you 
to  get  out  of  this  scrape.  Money '11  do  it.  You've  got  to 
pay  a  long  string  of  'em  from  General  Pomposo  down  to  this 
anthropoid  ape  guarding  your  door.  About  $10,000  will  do 
the  trick.  Have  you  got  the  money?' 

"'Me?'  says  I.  'I've  got  one  Chili  dollar,  two  real 
pieces,  and  a  medio.' 

'  'Then  if  you've  any  last  words,  utter  'em/  says  that  old 
reb.  'The  roster  of  your  financial  budget  sounds  quite  much 
to  me  like  the  noise  of  a  requiem/ 

"  'Change  the  treatment/  says  I.  'I  admit  that  I'm  short. 
Call  a  consultation  or  use  radium  or  smuggle  me  in  some 
saws  or  something/ 


298  Roads  of  Destiny 

'  'Yank,'  says  Doc  Millikin,  'I've  a  good  notion  to 
help  you.  There's  only  one  government  in  the  world  that 
can  get  you  out  of  this  difficulty;  and  that's  the  Confederate 
States  of  America,  the  grandest  nation  that  ever  existed.' 

"Just  as  you  said  to  me  I  says  to  Doc;  'Why,  the  Confed^ 
eracy  ain't  a  nation.  It's  been  absolved  forty  years  ago." 

'  'That's  a  campaign  lie,'  says  Doc.  'She's  running 
along  as  solid  as  the  Roman  Empire.  She's  the  only  hope 
you've  got.  Now,  you,  being  a  Yank,  have  got  to  go  through 
with  some  preliminary  obsequies  before  you  can  get  official 
aid.  You've  got  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  Con 
federate  Government.  Then  I'll  guarantee  she  does  all  she 
can  for  you.  What  do  you  say,  Yank  ?  —  it's  your  last 
chance.' 

"  'If  you're  fooling  with  me,  Doc,'  I  answers,  'you're  no 
better  than  the  United  States.  But  as  you  say  it's  the  last 
chance,  hurry  up  and  swear  me.  I  always  did  like  corn 
whisky  and  'possum  anyhow.  I  believe  I'm  half  Southerner 
by  nature.  I'm  willing  to  try  the  Ku-klux  in  place  of  the 
khaki.  Get  brisk.' 

"Doc  Millikin  thinks  awhile,  and  then  he  offers  me  this 
oath  of  allegiance  to  take  without  any  kind  of  a  chaser : 

"  'I,  Barnard  O'Keefe,  Yank,  being  of  sound  body  but 
a  Republican  mind,  hereby  swear  to  transfer  my  fealty,  re 
spect,  and  allegiance  to  the  Confederate  States  of  America, 
and  the  government  thereof  in  consideration  of  said  govern 
ment,  through  its  official  acts  and  powers,  obtaining  my  free 
dom  and  release  from  confinement  and  sentence  of  death 
brought  about  by  the  exuberance  of  my  Irish  proclivities  and 
my  general  pizenness  as  a  Yank.' 

"I  repeated  these  words  after  Doc,  but  they  seemed  to 
me  a  kind  of  hocus-pocus;  and  I  don't  believe  any  life-insur 
ance  company  in  the  country  would  have  issued  me  a  policy 
on  the  strength  of  'em. 


Two  Renegades  299 

"Doc  went  away  saying  he  would  communicate  with  h*s 
government  immediately. 

"Say  —  you  can  imagine  how  I  felt  —  me  to  be  shot  in 
two  weeks  and  my  only  hope  for  help  being  in  a  government 
that's  been  dead  so  long  that  it  isn't  even  remembered  ex 
cept  on  Decoration  Day  and  when  Joe  Wheeler  signs  the 
voucher  for  his  pay-check.  But  it  was  all  there  was  in 
sight;  and  somehow  I  thought  Doc  Millikin  had  something  up 
his  old  alpaca  sleeve  that  wasn't  all  foolishness. 

"Around  to  the  jail  comes  old  Doc  again  in  about  a  week. 
I  was  flea-bitten,  a  mite  sarcastic,  and  fundamentally  hungry. 

"  'Any  Confederate  ironclads  in  the  offing?'  I  asks.  'Do 
you  notice  any  sounds  resembling  the  approach  of  Jeb  Stew 
art's  cavalry  overland  or  Stonewall  Jackson  sneaking  up  in 
the  rear?  If  you  do,  I  wish  you'd  say  so.' 

"  'It's  too  soon  yet  for  help  to  come/  says  Doc. 

"  'The  sooner  the  better/  says  I.  'I  don't  care  if  it  gets 
in  fully  fifteen  minutes  before  I  am  shot;  and  if  you  happen 
to  lay  eyes  on  Beauregard  or  Albert  Sidney  Johnston  or  any 
of  the  relief  corps,  wig-wag  'em  to  hike  along.' 

'  'There's  been  no  answer  received  yet/  says  Doc. 

"  'Don't  forget/  says  I,  'that  there's  only  four  days  more. 
I  don't  know  how  you  propose  to  work  this  thing,  Doc/  I 
says  to  him;  'but  it  seems  to  me  I'd  sleep  better  if  you  had 
got  a  government  that  was  alive  and  on  the  map  —  like 
Afghanistan  or  Great  Britain,  or  old  man  Kruger's  kingdom^ 
to  take  this  matter  up.  I  don't  mean  any  disrespect  to  your 
Confederate  States,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  that  my  chances 
of  being  pulled  out  of  this  scrape  was  decidedly  weakened 
when  General  Lee  surrendered.' 

''It's   your   only   chance/    said   Doc;    'don't   quarrel   with 
it.     What  did.  your  own  country  do  for  you  ?' 

"It  was  only  two  days  before  the  morning  I  was  to  be  shot, 
when  Doc  Millikin  came  around  again. 


300  Roads  of  Destiny 

"  'All  right,  Yank/  says  he.  'Help's  come.  The  Con 
federate  States  of  America  is  going  to  apply  for  your  release. 
The  representatives  of  the  government  arrived  on  a  fruit- 
steamer  last  night/ 

"  'Bully !'  says  I  — 'bully  for  you,  Doc !  I  suppose  it's 
marines  with  a  Gatling.  I'm  going  to  love  your  country  all 
I  can  for  this/ 

"  'Negotiations,"  says  old  Doc,  'will  be  opened  between  the 
two  governments  at  once.  You  will  know  later  on  to-day 
if  they  are  successful/ 

"About  four  in  the  afternoon  a  soldier  in  red  trousers 
brings  a  paper  round  to  the  jail,  and  they  unlocks  the  door 
and  I  walks  out.  The  guard  at  the  door  bows  and  I  bows, 
and  I  steps  into  the  grass  and  wades  around  to  Doc  Millikin's 
shack. 

"Doc  was  sitting  in  his  hammock  playing  'Dixie/  soft 
and  low  and  out  of  tune,  on  his  flute.  I  interrupted  him  at 
'Look  away !  look  away !'  and  shook  his  hand  for  five  minutes. 

"  'I  never  thought/  says  Doc,  taking  a  chew  fretfully, 
'that  I'd  ever  try  to  save  any  blame  Yank's  life.  But,  Mr. 
O'Keefe,  I  don't  see  but  what  you  are  entitled  to  be  consid 
ered  part  human,  anyhow.  I  never  thought  Yanks  had  any 
of  the  rudiments  of  decorum  and  laudability  about  them.  I 
reckon  I  might  have  been  too  aggregative  in  my  tabulation. 
But  it  ain't  me  you  want  to  thank  —  it's  the  Confederate 
States  of  America/ 

"  'And  I'm  much  obliged  to  'em/  says  I.  'It's  a  poor  man 
that  wouldn't  be  patriotic  with  a  country  that's  saved  his 
life.  I'll  drink  to  the  Stars  and  Bars  whenever  there's  a  flag 
staff  and  a  glass  convenient.  But  where,'  says  I,  'are  the 
rescuing  troops?  If  there  was  a  gun  fired  or  a  shell  burst, 
I  didn't  he,«:r  it/ 

"Doc  Millikin  raises  up  and  points  out  the  window  with 
his  flute  at  the  banana-steamer  loading  with  fruit. 


Two  Renegades  301 

"  'Yank/  says  he,  'there's  a  steamer  that's  going  to  sail 
In  the  morning.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  sail  on  it.  The  Confed 
erate  Government's  done  all  it  can  for  you.  There  wasn't  a 
gun  fired.  The  negotiations  was  carried  on  secretly  between 
the  two  nations  by  the  purser  of  that  steamer.  I  got  him  to 
do  it  because  I  didn't  want  to  appear  in  it.  Twelve  thousand 
dollars  was  paid  to  the  officials  in  bribes  to  let  you  go.' 

"  'Man !'  says  I,  sitting  down  hard  — 'twelve  thousand  — 
how  will  I  ever  —  who  could  have  —  where  did  the  money 
come  from?' 

'  'Yazoo  City,'  says  Doc  Millikin:  'I've  got  a  little  saved 
up  there.  Two  barrels  full.  It  looks  good  to  these  Colom 
bians.  'Twas  Confederate  money,  every  dollar  of  it.  Now 
do  you  see  why  you'd  better  leave  before  they  try  to  pass 
some  of  it  on  an  expert  ?' 

"  'I  do,'  says  I. 

"  'Now,  let's  hear  you  give  the  password,"  says  Doc  Milli 
kin. 

"  'Hurrah  for  Jeff  Davis !'  says  I. 

"  'Correct,'  says  Doc. v  'And  let  me  tell  you  something: 
The  next  tune  I  learn  on  my  flute  is  going  to  be  "Yankee 
Doodle."  I  reckon  there's  some  Yanks  that  are  not  so  pizen» 
Or,  if  you  was  me,  would  you  try  "The  Red,  White,  and 
Blue"?'" 


XXIT 

THE  LONESOME  ROAD 

jjROWN  as  a  coffee-berry,  rugged,  pistoled,  spurred,  wary, 
indefeasible,  I  saw  my  old  friend,  Desputy-Marshal  Buck 
Caperton,  stumble,  with  jingling  rowels,  into  a  chair  in  the 
.marshal's  outer  office. 

And  because  the  court-house  was  almost  deserted  at  that 
Jiour,  and  because  Buck  would  sometimes  relate  to  me  things 
that  were  out  of  print,  I  followed  him  in  and  tricked  him 
into  talk  through  knowledge  of  a  weakness  he  had.  For, 
•cigarettes  rolled  with  sweet  corn  husk  were  as  honey  to  Buck's 
palate;  and  though  he  could  finger  the  trigger  of  a  forty- 
five  with  skill  and  suddenness,  he  never  could  learn  to  roll 
.a  cigarette. 

It  was  through  no  fault  of  mine  (for  I  rolled  the  cigarettes 
tight  and  smooth),  but  the  upshot  of  some  whim  of  his  own, 
that  instead  of  to  an  Odyssey  of  the  chaparral,  I  listened  to 
—  a  dissertation  upon  matrimony!  This  from  Buck  Caper- 
ton  !  But  I  maintain  that  the  cigarettes  were  impeccable,  and 
<;rave  absolution  for  myself. 

"We  just  brought  in  Jim  and  Bud  Cranberry,"  said  Buek. 
"Train  robbing,  you  know.  Held  up  the  Aransas  Pass  last 
month.  We  caught  'em  in  the  Twenty-Mile  pear  flat,  south 
of  the  Nueces." 

"Have  much  trouble  corralling  them?"  I  asked,  for  here 
was  the  meat  that  my  hunger  for  epics  craved. 

"Some,"  said  Buck;  and  then,  during  a  little  pause,  his 
thoughts  stampeded  off  the  trail.  "It's  kind  of  queer  about 

302 


The  Lonesome  Road  303- 

women,"  he  went  on,  "and  the  place  they're  supposed  to 
occupy  in  botany.  If  I  was  asked  to  classify  them  I'd  say 
they  was  a  human  loco  weed.  Ever  see  a  bronc  that  had 
been  chewing  loco?  Ride  him  up  to  a  puddle  of  water  two 
feet  wide,  and  he'll  give  a  snort  and  fall  back  on  you.  It 
looks  as  big  as  the  Mississippi  River  to  him.  Next  trip  he'd 
walk  into  a  canon  a  thousand  feet  deep  thinking  it  was  a  prai 
rie-dog  hole.  Same  way  with  a  married  man. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Perry  Rountree,  that  used  to  be  my 
sidekicker  before  he  committed  matrimony.  In  them  days  me 
and  Perry  hated  indisturbances  of  any  kind.  We  roamed 
around  considerable,  stirring  up  the  echoes  and  making  'em 
attend  to  business.  Why,  when  me  and  Perry  wanted  to 
have  some  fun  in  a  town  it  was  a  picnic  for  the  census  takers. 
They  just  counted  the  marshal's  posse  that  it  took  to  subdue 
us,  and  there  was  your  population.  But  then  there  came 
along  this  Mariana  Goodnight  girl  and  looked  at  Perry  side 
ways,  and  he  was  all  bridle-wise  and  saddle-broke  before  you. 
could  skin  A  yearling. 

"I  wasn't  even  asked  to  the  wedding.  I  reckon  the  bride 
had  my  pedigree  and  the  front  elevation  of  my  habits  all 
mapped  out,  and  she  decided  that  Perry  would  trot  better  in 
double  harness  without  any  unconverted  mustang  like  Buck 
Caperton  whickering  around  on  the  matrimonial  range.  So 
it  was  six  months  before  I  saw  Perry  again. 

"One  day  I  was  passing  on  the  edge  of  town,  and  I  see 
something  like  a  man  in  a  little  yard  by  a  little  house  with  a 
sprinkling-pot  squirting  water  on  a  rose-bush.  Seemed  to 
me,  I'd  seen  something  like  it  before,  and  I  stopped  at  the 
gate,  trying  to  figure  out  its  brands.  'Twas  not  Perry 
Rountree,  but  'twas  the  kind  of  a  curdled  jellyfish  matri 
mony  had  made  out  of  him. 

"Homicide  was  what  that  Mariana  had  perpetrated.  He 
was  looking  well  enough,  but  he  had  on  a  white  collar  and 


304  Roads  of  Destiny 

shoes,  and  you  could  tell  in  a  minute  that  he'd  speak  polite 
and  pay  taxes  and  stick  his  little  finger  out  while  drinking, 
just  like  a  sheep  man  or  a  citizen.  Great  skyrockets!  but 
I  hated  to  see  Perry  all  corrupted  and  Willie-ized  like  that. 

"He  came  out  to  the  gate,  and  shook  hands;  and  I  says, 
with  scorn,  and  speaking  like  a  paroquet  with  the  pip: 
'Beg  pardon  —  Mr.  Rountree,  I  believe.  Seems  to  me  I 
sagatiated  in  your  associations  once,  if  I  am  not  mistaken/ 

"  'Oh,  go  to  the  devil,  Buck,'  says  Perry,  polite,  as  I  was 
afraid  he'd  be. 

''Well,  then/  says  I,  'you  poor,  contaminated  adjunct  of 
&  sprinkling-pot  and  degraded  household  pet,  what  did  you 
go  and  do  it  for?  Look  at  you,  all  decent  and  unriotous, 
^ind  only  fit  to  sit  on  juries  and  mend  the  wood-house  door. 
You  was  a  man  once.  I  have  hostility  for  all  such  acts. 
Why  don't  you  go  in  the  house  and  count  the  tidies  or  set 
the  clock,  and  not  stand  out  here  in  the  atmosphere?  A  jack- 
rabbit  might  come  along  and  bite  you/ 

"  'Now,  Buck,'  says  Perry,  speaking  mild,  and  some  sor 
rowful,  'you  don't  understand.  A  married  man  has  got  to 
be  different.  He  feels  different  from  a  tough  old  cloudburst 
like  you.  It's  sinful  to  waste  time  pulling  up  towns  just  to 
look  at  their  roots,  and  playing  faro  and  looking  upon  red 
liquor,  and  such  restless  policies  as  them/ 

"  'There  was  a  time,'  I  says,  and  I  expect  I  sighed  when 
I  mentioned  it,  'when  a  certain  domesticated  little  Mary's 
lamb  I  could  name  was  some  instructed  himself  in  the  line 
of  pernicious  sprightliness.  I  never  expected,  Perry,  to  see 
you  reduced  down  from  a  full-grown  pestilence  to  such  a 
frivolous  fraction  of  a  man.  Why,'  says  I,  'you've  got  a 
necktie  on;  and  you  speak  a  senseless  kind  of  indoor  drivel 
that  reminds  me  of  a  storekeeper  or  a  lady.  You  look  to 
me  like  you  might  tote  an  umbrella  and  wear  suspenders,  and 
go  home  of  nights/ 


The  Lonesome  Eoad  305 

'  'The  little  woman,'  says  Perry,  'has  made  some  improve 
ments,  I  believe.  You  can't  understand,  Buck.  I  haven't 
been  away  from  the  house  at  night  since  we  was  married.' 

"We  talked  on  a  while,  me  and  Perry,  and,  as  sure  as  I 
live,  that  man  interrupted  me  in  the  middle  of  my  talk  to 
tell  me  about  six  tomato  plants  he  had  growing  in  his  garden. 
Shoved  his  agricultural  degradation  right  up  under  my  nose 
while  I  was  telling  him  about  the  fun  we  had  tarring  and 
feathering  that  faro  dealer  at  California  Pete's  layout!  But 
by  and  by  Perry  shows  a  flicker  of  sense. 

"  'Buck,'  says  he,  I'll  have  to  admit  that  it  is  a  little  dull 
at  times.  Not  that  I'm  not  perfectly  happy  with  the  little 
woman,  but  a  man  seems  to  require  some  excitement  now  and 
then.  Now,  I'll  tell  you:  Mariana's  gone  visiting  this  after 
noon,  and  she  won't  be  home  till  seven  o'clock.  That's  the 
limit  for  both  of  us  —  seven  o'clock.  Neither  of  us  ever 
stays  out  a  minute  after  that  time  unless  we  are  together. 
Now,  I'm  glad  you  came  along,  Buck,'  says  Perry,  'for  I'm 
feeling  just  like  having  one  more  rip-roaring  razoo  with  you 
for  the  sake  of  old  times.  What  you  say  to  us  putting  in  the 
afternoon  having  fun  —  I'd  like  it  fine,'  says  Perry. 

"I  slapped  that  old  captive  range-rider  half  across  his  lit 
tle  garden. 

"  'Get  your  hat,  you  old  dried-up  alligator/  I  shouts,  'you 
ain't  dead  yet.  You're  part  human,  anyhow,  if  you  did  get 
all  bogged  up  in  matrimony.  We'll  take  this  town  to  pieces 
and  see  what  makes  it  tick.  We'll  make  all  kinds  of  profligate 
demands  upon  the  science  of  cork  pulling.  You'll  grow  horns 
yet,  old  muley  cow,'  says  I,  punching  Perry  in  the  ribs, 
'if  you  trot  around  on  the  trail  of  vice  with  your  Uncle 
Buck.' 

"  'I'll  have  to  be  home  by  seven,  you  know/  says  Perry 
again. 

"  'Oh,  yes/  says  I,  winking  to  myself,  for  I  knew  the  kind 


306  Roads  of  Destiny 

of  seven  o'clocks  Perry  Rountree  got  back  by  after  he  once 
got  to  passing  repartee  with  the  bartenders. 

"We  goes  down  to  the  Gray  Mule  saloon  —  that  old  'dobe 
building  by  the  depot. 

"  'Give  it  a  name/  says  I,  as  soon  as  we  got  one  hoof  on 
the  foot-rest. 

"  'Sarsaparilla/  says  Perry. 

'''You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  lemon  peeling. 

"  'Insult  me  as  much  as  you  want  to/  I  says  to  Perry,  'but 
don't  startle  the  bartender.  He  may  have  heart-disease. 
Come  on,  now;  your  tongue  got  twisted.  The  tall  glasses/  I 
orders,  'and  the  bottle  in  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  ice- 
chest/ 

"  'Sarsaparilla/  repeats  Perry,  and  then  his  eyes  get  ani 
mated,  and  I  see  he's  got  some  great  scheme  in  his  mind  he 
wants  to  emit. 

"  'Buck/  he  says,  all  interested,  'I'll  tell  you  what !  I 
want  to  make  this  a  red-letter  day.  I've  been  keeping  close 
at  home,  and  I  want  to  turn  myself  a-loose.  We'll  have  the 
highest  old  time  you  ever  saw.  We'll  go  in  the  back  room 
here  and  play  checkers  till  half-past  six/ 

"I  leaned  against  the  bar,  and  I  says  to  Gotch-eared  Mike, 
who  was  on  watch: 

"  'For  God's  sake  don't  mention  this.  You  know  what 
Perry  used  to  be.  He's  had  the  fever,  and  the  doctor  says 
we  must  humour  him.' 

"  'Give  us  the  checker-board  and  the  men,  Mike/  says 
Perry.  'Come  on,  Buck,  I'm  just  wild  to  have  some  excite 
ment.' 

"  'I  went  in  the  back  room  with  Perry.  Before  we  closed 
the  door,  I  says  to  Mike : 

"  'Don't  ever  let  it  straggle  out  from  under  your  hat  that 
you  seen  Buck  Caperton  fraternal  with  sarsaparilla  or 


The  Lonesome  Road  307 

persona  grata  with  a  checker-board,  or  I'll  make  a  swallow- 
fork  in  your  other  ear.' 

"I  locked  the  door  and  me  and  Perry  played  checkers.  To 
see  that  poor  old  humiliated  piece  of  household  bric-a-brac 
witting  there  and  sniggering  out  loud  whenever  he  jumped 
a  man,  and  all  obnoxious  with  animation  when  he  got  into 
my  king  row,  would  have  made  a  sheep-dog  sick  with  morti 
fication.  Him  that  was  once  satisfied  only  when  he  was  peg 
ging  six  boards  at  keno  or  giving  the  faro  dealers  nervous 
jprostration  —  to  see  him  pushing  them  checkers  about  like 
&ally  Louisa  at  a  school-children's  party  —  why,  I  was  all 
smothered  up  with  mortification. 

"And  I  sits  there  playing  the  black  men,  all  sweating  for 
fear  somebody  I  knew  would  find  it  out.  And  I  thinks  to 
myself  some  about  this  marrying  business,  and  how  it  seems 
to  be  the  same  kind  of  a  game  as  that  Mrs.  Delilah  played. 
She  give  her  old  man  a  hair  cut,  and  everybody  knows  what 
a  man's  head  looks  like  after  a  woman  cuts  his  hair.  And 
then  when  the  Pharisees  came  around  to  guy  him  he  was  so 
'shamed  he  went  to  work  and  kicked  the  whole  house  down 
on  top  of  the  whole  outfit.  'Them  married  men,'  thinks  I, 
'lose  all  their  spirit  and  instinct  for  riot  and  foolishness. 
They  won't  drink,  they  won't  buck  the  tiger,  they  won't  even 
fight.  What  do  they  want  to  go  and  stay  married  for?'  I 
asks  myself. 

"But  Perry  seems  to  be  having  hilarity  in  considerable 
quantities. 

"  'Buck  old  hoss,'  says  he,  'isn't  this  just  the  hell-roar- 
ingest  time  we  ever  had  in  our  lives?  I  don't  know  when  I've 
been  stirred  up  so.  You  see,  I've  been  sticking  pretty  close 
to  home  since  I  married,  and  I  haven't  been  on  a  spree  in  a 
long  time.' 

"  'Spree !'     Yes,  that's  what  he  called  it.     Playing  check- 


308  Roads  of  Destiny 

ers  in  the  back  room  of  the  Gray  Mule!     I  suppose  it  did 
seem   to    him    a    little   immoral   and   nearer   to    a   prolonged 
debauch  than  standing  over  six  tomato  plants  with  a  sprink 
ling-pot. 

"Every  little  bit  Perry  looks  at  his  watch  and  says : 

"  'I  got  to  be  home,  you  know,  Buck,  at  seven.' 

"  'All  right,'  I'd  say.  'Romp  along  and  move.  This 
here  excitement's  killing  me.  If  I  don't  reform  some,  and 
loosen  up  the  strain  of  this  checkered  dissipation  I  won't  have 
a  nerve  left.' 

"It  might  have  been  half-past  six  when  commotions  began 
to  go  on  outside  in  the  street.  We  heard  a  yelling  and  a  six- 
shootering,  and  a  lot  of  galloping  and  manoeuvres. 

"  'What's  that?'  I  wonders. 

"  'Oh,  some  nonsense  outside,'  says  Perry.  'It's  your 
move.  We  just  got  time  to  play  this  game.' 

"  'I'll  just  take  a  peep  through  the  window,'  says  I,  'and 
see.  You  can't  expect  a  mere  mortal  to  stand  the  excitement 
of  having  a  king  jumped  and  listen  to  an  unidentified  conflict 
going  on  at  the  same  time.' 

"  The  Gray  Mule  saloon  was  one  of  them  old  Spanish  'dobe 
buildings,  and  the  back  room  only  had  two  little  windows  a 
foot  wide,  with  iron  bars  in  'em.  I  looked  out  one,  and  I  see 
the  cause  of  the  rucus. 

"There  was  the  Trimble  gang  —  ten  of  'em  —  the  worst 
outfit  of  desperadoes  and  horse-thieves  in  Texas,  coming  up 
the  street  shooting  right  and  left.  They  was  coming  right 
straight  for  the  Gray  Mule.  Then  they  got  past  the  range 
of  my  sight,  but  we  heard  'em  ride  up  to  the  front  door,  and 
then  they  socked  the  place  full  of  lead.  We  heard  the  big 
looking-glass  behind  the  bar  knocked  all  to  pieces  and  the 
bottles  crashing.  We  could  see  Gotch-eared  Mike  in  his 
apron  running  across  the  plaza  like  a  coyote,  with  the  bullets 
puffing  up  the  dust  all  around  him.  Then  the  gang  went  to 


The  Lonesome  Road  309 

work  in  the  saloon,  drinking  what  they  wanted  and  smashing 
what  they  didn't. 

"Me  and  Perry  both  knew  that  gang,  and  they  knew  us. 
The  year  before  Perry  married,  him  and  me  was  in  the  same 
ranger  company  —  and  we  fought  that  outfit  down  on  the 
San  Miguel,  and  brought  back  Ben  Trimble  and  two  others 
for  murder. 

"  'We  can't  get  out/  says  I.  'We'll  have  to  stay  in  here 
till  they  leave.' 

Perry  looked  at  his  watch. 

'  'Twenty-five  to  seven/  says  he.  'We  can  finish  that 
game.  I  got  two  men  on  you.  It's  your  move,  Buck.  I  got 
to  be  home  at  seven,  you  know.' 

"We  sat  down  and  went  on  playing.  The  Trimble  gang 
had  a  roughhouse  for  sure.  They  were  getting  good  and 
drunk.  They'd  drink  a  while  and  holler  a  while,  and  then 
they'd  shoot  up  a  few  bottles  and  glasses.  Two  or  three 
times  they  came  and  tried  to  open  our  door.  Then  there  was 
some  more  shooting  outside,  and  I  looked  out  the  window 
again.  Ham  Gossett,  the  town  marshal,  had  a  posse  in  the 
houses  and  stores  across  the  street,  and  was  trying  to  bag  a 
Trimble  or  two  through  the  windows. 

"I  lost  that  game  of  checkers.  I'm  free  in  saying  that 
I  lost  three  kings  that  I  might  have  saved  if  I  had  been  cor 
ralled  in  a  more  peaceful  pasture.  But  that  drivelling  mar 
ried  man  sat  there  and  cackled  when  he  won  a  man  like  an 
unintelligent  hen  picking  up  a  grain  of  corn. 

"When  the  game  was  over  Perry  gets  up  and  looks  at  his 
watch. 

"  'I've  had  a  glorious  time,  Buck/  says  he,  'but  I'll  have 
to  be  going  now.  It's  a  quarter  to  seven,  and  I  got  to  be 
home  by  seven,  you  know.' 

"I  thought  he  was  joking. 

'  'They'll  clear  out  or  be  dead  drunk  in  half  an  hour  or  an 


310  Roads  of  'Destiny 

hour/  says  I.  'You  ain't  that  tired  of  being  married  that 
you  want  to  commit  any  more  sudden  suicide,  are  you?'  says 
I,  giving  him  the  laugh. 

"  'One  time,'  says  Perry,  'I  was  half  an  hour  late  getting 
home.  I  met  Mariana  on  the  street  looking  for  me.  If  you 
could  have  seen  her,  Buck  —  but  you  don't  understand.  She 
knows  what  a  wild  kind  of  a  snoozer  I've  been,  and  she's 
afraid  something  will  happen.  I'll  never  be  late  getting 
home  again.  I'll  say  good-bye  to  you  now,  Buck.' 

"I  got  between  him  and  the  door. 

"  'Married  man,'  says  I,  'I  know  you  was  christened  a 
fool  the  minute  the  preacher  tangled  you  up,  but  don't  you 
never  sometimes  think  one  little  think  on  a  human  basis? 
There's  ten  of  that  gang  in  there,  and  they're  pizen  with 
whiskey  and  desire  for  murder.  They'll  drink  you  up  like 
a  bottle  of  booze  before  you  get  half-way  to  the  door.  Be 
intelligent,  now,  and  use  at  least  wild-hog  sense.  Sit  down 
and  wait  till  we  have  some  chance  to  get  out  without  being 
carried  in  baskets.' 

"  'I  got  to  be  home  by  seven,  Buck/  repeats  this  hen- 
pecked  thing  of  little  wisdom,  like  an  unthinking  poll  parrot. 
'Mariana,'  says  he,  '  '11  be  looking  out  for  me.'  And  he 
reaches  down  and  pulls  a  leg  out  of  the  checker  table.  'I'll 
go  through  this  Trimble  outfit/  says  he,  'like  a  cottontail 
through  a  brush  corral.  I'm  not  pestered  any  more  with  a 
desire  to  engage  in  rucuses,  but  I  got  to  be  home  by  seven. 
You  lock  the  door  after  me,  Buck.  And  don't  you  forget  — 
I  won  three  out  of  them  five  games.  I'd  play  longer,  but 
Mariana  — ' 

"  'Hush  up,  you  old  locoed  road  runner/  I  interrupts.  'Did 
you  ever  notice  your  Uncle  Buck  locking  doors  against  trou 
ble?  I'm  not  married/  says  I,  'but  I'm  as  big  a  d — n 
fool  as  any  Mormon.  One  from  four  leaves  three,'  says  I, 
and  I  gathers  out  another  leg  of  the  table.  'We'll  get  home 


The  Lonesome  Road  311 

by  seven,'  says  I,  'whether  it's  the  heavenly  one  or  the  other. 
May  I  see  you  home?'  says  I,  'you  sarsaparilla-drinking, 
checker-playing  glutton  for  death  and  destruction.' 

"We  opened  the  door  easy,  and  then  stampeded  for  the 
front.  Part  of  the  gang  was  lined  up  at  the  bar;  part  of  'em 
was  passing  over  the  drinks,  and  two  or  three  was  peeping 
out  the  door  and  window  taking  shots  at  the  marshal's  crowd. 
The  room  was  so  full  of  smoke  we  got  half-way  to  the  front 
door  before  they  noticed  us.  Then  I  heard  Berry  Trimble's 
voice  somewhere  yell  out: 

'  'How'd  that  Buck  Caperton  get  in  here?'  and  he  skinned 
the  side  of  my  neck  with  a  bullet.  I  reckon  he  felt  bad  over 
that  miss,  for  Berry's  the  best  shot  south  of  the  Southern 
Pacific  Railroad.  But  the  smoke  in  the  saloon  was  some  too 
thick  for  good  shooting. 

"Me  and  Perry  smashed  over  two  of  the  gang  with  our 
table  legs,  which  didn't  miss  like  the  guns  did,  and  as  we 
run  out  the  door  I  grabbed  a  Winchester  from  a  fellow  who 
was  watching  the  outside,  and  I  turned  and  regulated  the  ac 
count  of  Mr.  Berry. 

"Me  and  Perry  got  out  and  around  the  corner  all  right. 
I  never  much  expected  to  get  out,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  be 
intimidated  by  that  married  man.  According  to  Perry's  idea, 
checkers  was  the  event  of  the  day,  but  if  I  am  any  judge  of 
gentle  recreations  that  little  table-leg  parade  through  the 
Gray  Mule  saloon  deserved  the  head-lines  in  the  bill  of  par 
ticulars. 

'  'Walk  fast,'  says  Perry,  'it's  two  minutes  to  seven,  and 
I  got  to  be  home  by  — ' 

"  'Oh,  shut  up,'  says  I.  'I  had  an  appointment  as  chief 
performer  at  an  inquest  at  seven,  and  I'm  not  kicking  about 
not  keeping  it.' 

"I  had  to  pass  by  Perry's  little  house.  His  Mariana  was 
standing  at  the  gate.  We  got  there  at  five  minutes  past  seven. 


312  Roads  of  Destiny 

She  had  on  a  blue  wrapper,  and  her  hair  was  pulled  back 
smooth  like  little  girls  do  when  they  want  to  look  grown- 
folksy.  She  didn't  see  us  till  we  got  close,  for  she  was  gaz 
ing  up  the  other  way.  Then  she  backed  around,  and  saw 
Perry,  and  a  kind  of  look  scooted  around  over  her  face  — 
danged  if  I  can  describe  it.  I  heard  her  breathe  long,  just 
like  a  cow  when  you  turn  her  calf  in  the  lot,  and  she  says: 
'You're  late,  Perry/ 

"  'Five  minutes,'  says  Perry,  cheerful.  'Me  and  old  Buck 
was  having  a  game  of  checkers.' 

"Perry  introduces  me  to  Mariana,  and  they  ask  me  to  come 
in.  No,  sir-ee.  I'd  had  enough  truck  with  married  folks  for 
that  day.  I  says  I'll  be  going  along,  and  that  I've  spent 
a  very  pleasant  afternoon  with  my  old  partner  — 'especially/ 
says  I,  just  to  jostle  Perry,  'during  that  game  when  the  table 
legs  came  all  loose/  But  I'd  promised  him  not  to  let  her 
know  anything. 

"I've  been  worrying  over  that  business  ever  since  it  hap 
pened,"  continued  Buck.  "There's  one  thing  about  it  that's 
got  me  all  twisted  up,  and  I  can't  figure  it  out." 

"What  was  that?"  I  asked,  as  I  rolled  and  handed  Buck 
the  last  cigarette. 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you:  When  I  saw  the  look  that  little 
woman  give  Perry  when  she  turned  round  and  saw  him  com 
ing  back  to  the  ranch  safe  —  why  was  it  I  got  the  idea  all 
in  a  minute  that  that  look  of  hers  was  worth  more  than  the 
whole  caboodle  of  us  —  sarsaparilla,  checkers,  and  all,  and 
that  the  d — n  fool  in  the  game  wasn't  named  Perry  Roun- 
tree  at  all?" 

THE    END 


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Roads  of  destiny, 


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